


homecoming

by stanyeol



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Character Study, Embedded Images, FUCK YOU SM, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, post-departure fic, this used to only hint at krisho but i got carried away so, yifan-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-01-26 21:31:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21380896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stanyeol/pseuds/stanyeol
Summary: his mother says it about guangzhou.the girl who stole his first kiss said it about vancouver.1junmyeon said it too about seoul.2“this isn’t your home; this is mine.”but only his mother offered to share hers3____________________________________[1]   it’s september 2014.[2]   almost two months since yifan left exo.[3]   this is the first time he’s going home.
Relationships: Kim Junmyeon | Suho/Wu Yi Fan | Kris
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35
Collections: November Rain Fest Round 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for Prompt **NR055**: _Kris is weary from fighting to succeed and goes back to China to find solace in the one person who knows him better than anyone else: his mom._
> 
> ty to the mods for this fest and their patience, honestly. second, sorry to the prompter—i know you didn’t want any romance, but i couldn’t resist sksksk
> 
> horoscopes inspired by regurgling [@poetastrologers](https://twitter.com/poetastrologers)’ tweets. recipe is based on [this](https://www.errenskitchen.com/perfect-chinese-noodles/#wprm-recipe-container-7955). yifan’s letter is inspired by [this](https://aaww.org/drop-a-kite-fong-lee/), while the writing prompts are from [here](https://www.journalbuddies.com/prompts-by-grade/creative-writing-topics-5th-grade/). pictures came from wikimedia commons, with some edited in good ‘ol cracked photoshop. 
> 
> while based slightly on his interviews and his studio’s statements, everything you see on this fic about wu yifan’s departure from exo, his relationships with any of the members, or his home life is **fictional** (<del>especially the last one because it’s based on mine oop</del>).
> 
> i like to call this fic a _scrapbook_ fic, because this is practically just a hodgepodge of all things yifan—and all the things i could attach to him. so if you decided to give this a chance—despite how weird and disjoint this is—thank you very much. to marie-anne and ninna, thanks for tolerating the insanity that propelled this fic. 
> 
> this is a scorpio writing about a scorpio during scorpio season. belated happy birthday, kris wu.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _wai gong_: grandfather  
_wai po_: grandmother
> 
> there's a part in this chapter that might be slightly triggering. it's subtle but still, so check the end notes for **trigger warning**.

[1]

##  **homecoming noodles recipe**

### ingredients

  * 2 kg of Chinese noodles of your choice
| 

  * 11 members, angry and hurt  
---|---  
  
  * 1 Junmyeon, burdened
| 

  * 3 tablespoons dry sherry  
  
  * 3 green onions, sliced into thin rounds
| 

  * 1 dream, beaten  
  
  * 1 pinch, unfair profit distribution
| 

  * 2 years of treatment, unfair  
  
  * 1 pinch of lawsuit (or more as needed)
| 

  * 1 pinch, unclear future  
  
  * 2 years of schedules, inhumane
| 

  * 5,000,000 fans, in shock  
  
  * 1 pinch, failure
| 

  * 2 older brothers, disappointed  
  
  * 50 dumpling wrappers
| 

  * 1 pinch, shame  
  
  * 2 tablespoons of sesame oil
| 

  * 1 ½ cup of water  
  
  * 1 waist, broken and in pain
| 

  * 1 heart, ill  
  
  * 1 cup cooked meat, your choice
|   
  
  
  


### directions

_prep:_ 6 years  
_cook:_ 6 hours__  
_ready in:_ never  
  


  1. Cook the noodles underdone, in less time than what is stated on the package instructions. Drain, then rinse with cold water before setting aside.
  2. Combine 2 years of unfair treatment and 2 years of inhumane schedules in a large entertainment company. Heat with 1 pinch of unfair profit distribution and 1 pinch of unclear future in a tall Chinese idol over high heat.
  3. Once hot, rightfully question the management. Add cut lines in a recording. Stir-fry for 10 minutes.
  4. Once forced to leave, negotiate staying. Allow the 2 years of unfair treatment and 2 years of inhumane schedule to almost evaporate, before adding 1 broken waist and 1 ill heart. Toss so that all ingredients are combined.
  5. Turn the heat down to medium and leave. Add 11 angry and hurt members, 2 disappointed older brothers, 1 burdened Junmyeon, and 5,000,000 shocked fans. 
  6. Add 1 pinch of lawsuit according to taste. Stir-fry for 2 months then toss to combine thoroughly. 
  7. Serve with failure and shame for garnish.

[2]

###  _ 6:04:35 left _  
**20,000 feet above guangzhou, guangdong province, china**

his right hand’s knuckles are still bruised from where he punched the wall the other day. 

they used to be swollen, blotches of crimson and pink scattered around the area, raw and sensitive to the touch. (_like he was, at the beginning—_) 

now, they are blanketed in purple, a bit blue at the edges, black in some parts, light in others. healing, but not quite. (_like he was, right now—_)

he stretches his knuckles out, feeling the languid jolts of pain go through him as his long fingers tapped and danced across the airplane seat’s armrest. that’s fine. pain is always a better sensation than nothing.

yifan peers out the window. all he can see are clouds. big, white balls of fluff, floating freely in the vibrant blue sky. it’s brave, he thinks. being shadows of blankness amidst a pool of color—clear, unsullied, _ empty _ despite the saturation. (_like he was, when he was in—_)

it has been exactly one month, 23 days, and 11 hours since he left EXO. not that he was counting, of course.

but when you’ve been hauled off to different cities, in different cars, with different people for different meetings—all of the differences tend to blend together and be the same. day in, day out, all he could see was a muted canvas of white—bland, colorless, tasteless, _ downright tedious_. (_like he will be, if he continues to be_—)

the storm is starting to subside, at least, according to his lawyers and his newly-formed management team. the sun will come out soon, they say. yifan has the upper hand, they convinced him. he is david against goliath, the underdog trampled by the large corporation, a wide-eyed idealistic boy who was abused by broken promises and even more broken dreams. he defied the odds. a _ hero_.

he never did have the courage to tell them that he wasn’t the martyr they were looking for. that he was only a hero for those who have decided to stop risking dying by the blade, running away to find comfort.

for some time he thought it was cowardice. but now, in hindsight, he realized someone as hollow as him wasn’t fit to fight the war—any war—at all.

the captain’s voice rings out through the plane’s intercom, informing the passengers of their imminent arrival. beside him, the short, succinct smile of his new manager greets him. the man nods at him, still unable to brush off the lingering remnants of sleep threatening to overwhelm him. 

“ah, yifan, we’re home,” his manager, whose name still evades his memory, says, yawning and stretching his numb limbs.

all yifan can do is blink at him. his manager is home. he isn’t.

(_like he always was, and will always be_—)

[3]

###  _ 5:36:17 left_  
**arrival area, guangzhou baiyun international airport**

despite the years that separated them, guangzhou still remains the same, at least in yifan’s eyes. it welcomes him with open arms, surrounding him with warmth. almost too much warmth. 

it’s hot and humid—a suffocating kind of heat that makes the thin material of his shirt cling to his torso. sweat forms into pools on his back, his neckline wet already, leaving him dripping with heat and discomfort. 

above him, the sky betrays its promise. the cerulean sea the clouds swam in is now a river of gray, staining the white fluffs with smoke and soot as it hid the sunlight.

this is the guangzhou that he left, but that didn’t make him feel any better. he feels like a neglected child, going home to find that nothing has changed, that nothing has changed for him.

he winces, before scoffing at himself. if his former managers are to be believed, this is the entitlement that cost him his career.

.

the soft drawls of cantonese surround him from all sides of the bustling airport, sounds that should be comforting but did nothing to abate the expanding abyss within him. 

it was his grandmother’s tongue. her lullaby as she cradled him to sleep, her thumb stroking the furrowed brow of a boy who cried for his mother’s presence. it was her sharp sword as she scolded him after getting his knees skinned, running too much, no restraints as he hurtled forward and flew with the wind. it was her litany as she held his hand, the raisin pads of her wrinkled fingers tracing his, committing him to what little memory she still had, while her eyes betrayed the unspoken: _ are you sure? do you have to go? do you _ want _ to go? _

(but only the last word was spoken, succeeded by an _ -odbye, _ an -_odluck_, but never preceded with the truth—_don’t”._)

it was the song that he grew up listening to, as the only child on the street, the light and airy lilt of her voice blowing arias from her lips, the notes flying from her before being caught by his grandfather’s arms. 

in his grandfather’s arms her song grew, swelling, fattening, before bursting into flames, scorching them all, filling their lungs with ash, melting the arteries it touched, permanent blisters ensuring the impact.

but his grandfather loved heat, a child of guangzhou, milky eyes nurtured by the city’s views even when it was still named _ canton_. the sweltering sweat was part of him, the resounding heat still whispering breezes to comfort him. 

so his _ wai gong _ molded his _ wai po_’s song with his own, before throwing it back, his wide, gummy smile providing melodies despite the debris.

everyone had always told yifan that he had the same smile—when they saw him counting the change in his grandmother’s noodle stall, when they watched him being carried on his grandfather’s shoulders, when his mother got that unreadable look on her eyes on her monthly visit home, when he carried his _ wai gong_’s casket and held his _ wai po’s _ hand on that rainy day last november.

_ you’re so much like him_, everyone always said. but yifan knows that if there was a sliver of truth to that, he would have loved the heat, not standing outside the burning house, guilt and unfamiliarity asphyxiating him, gripping his lungs with smoke and soot.

.

there is nothing familiar about guangzhou anymore. the domineering landscape sprawls out from afar, skyscrapers littering and looming in the skyline, casting even more shadows in the already darkening city. he wonders how many are hiding in the darkness, and how much they are willing to welcome him. there, he must find the familiarity he craves, the solace he needs.

at his periphery, sticking out, are the twinkling colorful lights of the canton tower. they circle around her body, a huge spiral structure that seem to dance along to a silent symphony only for her. she teases yifan, mocks him, spinning freely, fighting to color to the dense wind, showing exactly whatever he’s missing—_everything _he has been missing.

perhaps it is pettiness, but with vindication on his tongue, he turns away from her and looks at one of the skyscrapers, a glimmering, metallic infrastructure standing tall, piercing the clouds, inconspicuous amidst every similar-looking tower beside it. 

he wonders how it feels like to be at the top floor. would it feel like being on top of the world? because at least, that was how it felt for him when he was carried on his grandfather’s shoulders, with his grandmother cheering him on.

but at that top, it’s probably a whole different view. his grandfather’s strong shoulders weren’t bracing him anymore, his grandmother wasn’t clucking her tongue in fake exasperation. it was lonely, desolate, alone_. _

his grandfather told him then that your home, which breathed you into life, is the first one to know you, even before you knew what you were. but he couldn’t feel that from guangzhou, couldn’t feel the warmth in its heat, couldn’t hear the song in its music.

maybe _ he _ is the one who neglected guangzhou.

or maybe guangzhou just didn’t know him anymore.

_ fair play,_ he thinks. he doesn’t know himself anymore either.

[5]

[Celeb] • May 22, 2014

#  **EXO Kris Files Lawsuit Against SM Entertainment**

Link to SM Entertainment’s full statement here 

Last week, May 15, EXO’s Kris filed a lawsuit against his company, SM Entertainment, in the Seoul District Court. ****

Kris, whose real name is Wu Yifan, filed a case to terminate his contract with the company, cancelling SM’s exclusive management rights over his career. In his lawsuit, Wu claims that SM disregarded basic human rights, overworking him regardless of his health condition.****

Rumors regarding Wu’s departure have been floating since a month ago. After a comeback showcase last May 11, many have noticed that Wu did not join the other EXO-M members in the journey back to Seoul the day after. Fans waiting at the airport were told that he had stayed in China to spend time with family.****

Meanwhile, others have compared his situation with former Super Junior member Hangeng, who left his group in 2009 after four years as a member. Moreover, many have also noticed that Wu is also represented by the same law firm that represented Hangeng in 2009. ****

In response to this news, SM Entertainment released the following statement: “We confirm that we have received a lawsuit from Wu Yifan. We are currently looking into the situation and are putting every effort into making sure EXO’s activities continue to do well.”

The company also refuses to give further details, stating that it wants to keep the case as private as possible. ****

Nevertheless, many are still curious about the other members’ reaction to the news. EXO-K leader, who now many assume to be EXO’s new main leader, Suho, has been silent regarding the news.

This is despite appearing onstage for M!Countdown, where EXO won for _ Overdose, _ the same day that Wu left. In his speech, he seemingly comforts the members and the fans: “EXO members, I love you guys honestly. Our motto is ‘We Are One’, [and] we will become a group that not only think about ourselves but both EXO and EXO fans. We are one. I love you.” ****

Fans are also quick to notice some of the members’ posts on their Instagram pages as well. EXO’s maknae, Sehun, posted a captionless picture of a question mark, while EXO’s rapper, Chanyeol, posted the group’s logo with the translated caption: “Reward virtue/good and punish the bad/evil.” ****

Meanwhile, EXO’s Tao, the youngest of EXO-M, posted a lengthy message both on Instagram and Weibo: “The road is long, and no one can decide where you want to go. The public will always be left in the dark, but it might be that the public will side with who is in the minority. However that's not the truth. Only those who have experienced the truth are able to understand, such as our 11 members and SM employees. To those on the outside, the right and wrong could be reflected oppositely. They probably won't know what it feels like to be betrayed by another person and then to have everyone side with the person who has betrayed us. Everyone can have their own perspectives and opinions. However, the truth is pointing to what is right and wrong. We have a clear conscience. We can't stop someone who wants to leave, and he kept this from us. As we were sweating and practicing hard for our concert, we learned that one wouldn't be coming back. We have to restart preparations for the concert as 11 members. So tired. EXO, let's love."

In a separate post, he clarifies, "I am EXO member Tao. The things said on Weibo and Instagram are by me. I have nothing to hide."****

The now-former member's departure comes during the preparation for the group’s first concert tour, “EXO from Exoplanet 1 — The Lost Planet," which will kick off at the Olympic Gymnastics Arena on May 24. ****

Wu is formerly the leader of EXO-M, EXO’s subgroup which primarily promoted in China. He is one of the main rappers the group, alongside Chanyeol, Sehun, (for EXO-K) and Zitao. Together with the other eleven members, he debuted in April 2012. 

Sources: **1**, **2**

[5]

###  _4:47:54 left_  
**a random gasoline station near guangzhou north railway station, jinghua alley, huadu, guangzhou**

his new manager leaves him behind at a nearby gasoline station–hurried, breathless, distracted, too excited about coming home.

slight tendrils of envy blossom within yifan, seeing his manager excited as he drives him home, seeing how the man’s joy is the closest he’s ever going to get. 

his manager’s happiness radiates from him in waves, so obvious it’s almost tangible. 

yifan can probably reach out and touch them if he wanted to, but instead he nods dutifully, trying his hardest to look interested as the usual demands come from his manager’s lips, asking him to meet soon, to take care, to put his head down and try his hardest not to get in trouble.

(as if the trouble he’s drowning in right now isn’t enough.)

seeing the haste and urgency come from his manager, all he can do was nod, trying to give a comforting smile, one that his _ wai gong _taught him.

it is the smile he lectured on was he was on his deathbed, teeth long fallen, his children huddled around his bed, looking austere while holding his hand. their heads were bowed down in wordless prayer, while they all wore grossly oversized pairs of sunglasses, lips tight in a line, stifling tears and sobs that they knew their father would despise.

it was a scene of pretending, and yifan, the darling grandson, the _ superstar_, was perfect for the part. 

as age spots decorated the webs on the corners of his grandfather’s eyes, he watched as his grandfather demonstrated that smile, his wrinkled fingers stretching out to touch yifan’s face, stroking cheeks that he hasn’t seen in a while. 

(_go home, yifan—_)

(_i can’t, mama, i have work. t__hey won’t let me—_)

(—_go home because if you don’t, the only time your grandfather __will see you is not in that concert of yours, but from the skies_)

_wai_ _gong_, he had tried to whisper.

back then it was a greeting; now in hindsight it was a plea, a prayer to the heavens for more time, for more chances. but as his grandfather traced his gaunt cheeks, committing him into the frail threads of memory he still had, yifan knows that there is no one to hear his prayers anymore.

the one above has welcomed his _wai_ _gong_, letting the old man borrow time for a while, convincing himself that his grandson, the brave, the dreamer, the one who chased after the impossible, is there in the flesh, finally, _finally _able to see him.

(and with that, yifan realizes that he has borrowed time too, staving off his guilt, covering up the hole that opened up within him.)

then, with an ounce of clarity that has long eluded his eyes, his grandfather gave him _ that _ smile—the smile of gratitude, of awe, of promises, of pride. his grandfather’s only way of saying goodbye.

he never was able to give his manager the same smile, but he’s sure that it was the same smile that he tried to give those eleven boys that he left in korea. 

(but somehow, something tells him he failed.)

following his manager’s advice he puts on his black mask, bows his head down, and fixes his snapback before going to the convenience store near the gasoline station.

.

despite being close to the airport, the convenience store is practically empty. the only other person there with him is the cashier, but even then the young boy is practically dead already, head slumped, neck bent in a scary angle, but snoring loudly. 

he loiters around the chips section, looking at the junk food in front of him, suddenly realizing that _ now_, he is free to eat whatever he wants. there are no more managers to click their tongues at him, hissing, whenever he takes one scoop of rice or a piece of gimbap too many.

there aren't any members anymore clinging on to his arm, cheeks stretched out into cloying smiles, the sweetness feigned to hide the darker shadows under their eyes and the weakening strength behind their grips.

there are no more eyes fluttering at him, lips jutted out in a gross pout, trying to act cute but highlighting the sharper and deeper hollows of their cheeks. there are no more incessant prodding, threats of blackmail with ugly selcas saved on their phones, mischievous fingers travelling down his sides, endangering him with impending tickle fights. 

there are no more high-pitched whines to mask the loud grumbles of their stomachs, noise that no one acknowledges but everyone experiences. there’s no more laughter to drown that sound, as it accompanies the wide-eyed shameless asking for his last piece of dumpling, a soft, drawn-out _ please, duizhang_?

the urge to pickpocket something comes to him, like a call from the void. 

like it did when they were still trainees and zitao climbed into his bed, moaning in pain, eyes rolling to the back, forehead burning, stomach empty. like it did when they all searched their pockets and counted what they found, which was nothing but lint and a few sticky candy wrappers. like it did when luhan swallowed his pride, wiping his clammy hand on his jeans as the other held minseok’s hand, to call his family for help, his old man’s curses reverberating around the room, making even the almost-dead zitao wince. like it did when yixing, with his still measly korean and two hours of sleep, ran around seoul to offer cheap dance classes to wannabe trainees from the internet, even though it was forbidden, even though it was dangerous. 

like it did when yifan styled his hair, shaved immaculately, dressed in his prettiest clothes, and stared at the expensive watches that glimmered under gangnam’s twinkling lights.

(like it did before junmyeon bumped into him, eyes wide in surprise at the tall chinese trainee all cleaned up, before morphing into suspicion as his gaze bounced from the naked hunger in his eyes to the glimmer of the watches.)

(like it did before junmyeon heard zitao’s name, pushing his black card into his fumbling hands, ignoring yifan’s broken and choked voice, something he’ll forever be thankful for.)

it is the same pull of the cliff edge, and as it taunts him, mocks him, all he can think of is how familiar it felt. 

that’s something he hasn’t had for a while.

he turns away from the packet of fish crackers in front of him. maybe some other time.

with a tube of gum in his hand, yifan moves to browse the magazine rack, trying to find something to get his mind off things. but he’s suddenly slapped with a bright magazine cover, colors clashing as the words _ kpop’s new kings _ blind him, glaring at him. 

and as his eyes adjusted to the initial shock and brightness, all he could see are the twelve boys he’s hiding from, large smiles adorning their faces—all happy.

and if he hadn’t seen his grinning at him—_almost real_.

(—but not, _ never _ his grandfather’s comforting smile.)

<strike> ( that’s okay; he didn’t deserve it, anyway. ) </strike>

[6]

incoming text from **myeon** (3:02 am, may 16, 2014):

fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you 

i hate youuiuiouu soooooop mcuhhhhhhhh 

incoming text from **myeon** (3:08 am, may 16, 2014):

u cudn’t efven say anythign b4hand

seok adn luhan hynung locked thier dorm

soo and yeolie r cryngi

criyng

CRYINHG

i dranmnk u kno i diny dont drin k anymre bt i dran k bcoz of u

tao h8s u

i h8 u

why

idk wat 2 do nwwww

u left me 

incoming text from **myeon** (3:30 am, may 16, 2014):

2 clean ur messssss

fuck you yifan

outgoing text to **myeon** (8:21 am, may 16, 2014):

I’m sorry. You know I had to.

  
  


incoming text from **myeon** (1:49 pm, may 16, 2014):

you still should have told me.

it was the least you could do.

incoming text from **myeon** (11:58 pm, may 16, 2014):

after everything

?

.

[7]

###  _4:30:28 left_  
**behind the gasoline stop’s convenience store, near the dumpster**

above him, the skies are getting dark, dirty white sullied with gray, offering a grim snapshot before it surrenders to the shadows and blankets him with tar.

the store's concrete wall is slippery behind his back, almost slimy with years of piled-up dirt and moss mingled with each other. he doesn't care though. whatever mess he's leaning on is undoubtedly cleaner than the life he just ran away from, anyway. 

still, he fidgets with his phone, long fingers twirling it around, as easy and as weightless as a piece of paper.

he's waiting for wei, his cousin, to text him back, almost for two hours now, asking to be fetched. the trains and buses and the people are battle fronts he just isn't eager to encounter right now. but still, all he received is silence.

he shrugged that off. it's not like he isn't used to it, anyway.

it’s been almost two months since he left korea, the country that reluctantly welcomed him but learned to love him like her own, and left the group that did just that. 

but in the time that passed, his phone is blank, inbox empty aside from the cloyingly sweet promises of producers back in china, abrupt and stilted reminders from his lawyers, the hurried comfort of the industry friends that he managed to earn in his fledgling career, and the one—the only _ one_—time that _ he _texted, drunk and in turmoil, a mess that he created.

somehow, despite it all, the last one is the only one that matters to him. after all, it’s the only message he can’t find it in him to delete—not like he can, anyway.

no matter what happens, there’s no way yifan can ever erase _ him_.

.

as the night starts to make its appearance, circling the sky as if coming home, the colors of guangzhou follows after. the city spans thousands of kilometers wide, across and above and around the spaces that bore witness as yifan took his first steps, inhaled his first breaths, and crafted his first dreams. but somehow, it always feels small—stifling, suffocating—a little box that dared to capture him and refuse to let him go. 

when he was younger, he rebelled against this. glow-in-the-dark stars covered his room’s ceiling, while he’d steal his _ wai gong’s_ precious atlases to peek at them in the nighttime, when the lights are out and all he had was his fake stars and the moon’s fake light for company. they were his first witnesses as he tried to inject magic into his dreams, writing down how they’d come to life, planning the impossible. they were apt, now he supposes—fake support for fake realities. 

if only they supported him against the consequences his delusions brought.

now he’s back, eyes boring into the neon signages that decorated the storefronts of the shops at the other side of the highway. above him, the moon can’t be seen, sky almost pitch black, but the bright artificial lights shining on his face compensate enough. they cast yifan into the light, despite all of his attempts of staying within the shadows. 

despite being thrust into the light, he finds himself unable to harbor any ill will. the attention the lights of guangzhou gives him is not far from the coos and compliments his _ wai po _ showered him before—embarrassing but never unwelcome. 

it feels familiar, as familiar as coarse, wrinkled fingers—roughened by daily work in the market—stroking his chubby cheeks before pinching them, delighted in the boyish fat that made his face look like the basketball he brought with him all the time. the brightness passes through him like the large, domineering hands that would tame as they gently ruffled his hair, messing up the hairstyle he spent all morning to perfect. 

the light makes him feel at ease, comfortable—as warm as a mother putting a blanket over a sleeping son long passed out after waiting the entire night.

no matter how cramped, noisy, or busy guangzhou has become, morphing into a place as far from his dreams as possible, it’s still his home. something in it—a magic, a pull, a tug emanating somewhere hidden inside his chest—tethers him to the city, sings his name, and waits for him to claim it again. 

and yifan wants to. he really wants to. but something feels off.

he’s coming back to this city, this country, with baggage on his shoulders, his wretched dreams riding on his back, sore and weathered feet dragging behind him after a failed expedition—all in expectation of a home. but this feels like an impostor. somehow, along the way, guangzhou’s magic has dissipated; it’s still there, but it isn’t for him anymore. 

the city that he loved, that he thrived in, is still there, but it isn’t waiting for him anymore. too many changes have occurred while he was gone. too much—that he couldn’t recognize it anymore.

in hindsight, perhaps guangzhou acknowledges this. yifan has changed too over the past years. perhaps guangzhou doesn’t recognize him too.

the blanket the city has put over him was a peace offering, an apology, compensation for the damages he brought that it was unable to heal.

a gift softly saying: here, take this while you try to figure yourself out and find your wings so you can fly again. because guangzhou isn’t your nest anymore. it isn’t where you should be landing on. guangzhou is where you can stop, but not—_never_—to stay for long.

this _ was _ your home, but not anymore.

smudges of color from the large signages opposite him lovingly cradle yifan’s face, meek in regret. he refuses to wince.

there are tides in his gut that threaten to be turbulent. he swallows them down. above him, the inky expanse of the sky shifts, letting the twinkle of real stars peek through. they bleach the skies, and together with the artificial rainbow below, the cacophony of lights play and scatter in different horizons—threaded in the sky, dancing around him below, chasing places he knew his eyes could never reach.

he let out a deep breath, his eyes finding its balance on a generic neon-lit signpost, advertising noodles while blinding his eyes.

finally, he supposes, trying to find comfort with his thoughts. the fake lights are able to tell the truth: the city wasn’t small. 

he was.

[8]

incoming text from **mama** (2:51 pm, may 15, 2014):  
i’m home.

[9]

####  **horoscope for scorpio**

**yesterday: ** there are many questions in the horizon. stop hiding from them. what if you aren’t right? what if you aren’t ready? anything is better than nothing. silly you. you should know by now. ****

**today:** a door has closed, but that is not your future. do not stay at home. open the windows. change the curtains. wait for the ecstasy. the forever is worth it. ****

**tomorrow: **to be forgiven, you must first forgive yourself. outside, the stars are twinkling brightly. go. run. take and be taken. they need you as much as you need them. 

[10]

SM Entertainment

#### DEBUT LINE-UP

**EXO-K**  
Byun Baekhyun - vocal  
Doh Kyungsoo - vocal  
Park Chanyeol - rap  
Kim Junmyeon (Suho) - leader  
Oh Sehun - rap  
Kim Jongin - dance

**EXO-M**  
Kim Jongdae (Chen) - vocal  
Kim Minseok (Xiumin) - vocal  
Huang Zitao (Tao) - rap  
Zhang Yixing (Lay) - dance  
Lu Han - vocal  
<del>Wu Yifan</del>  
Ban Hsien-feng  
Bi Tia  
<del>Wu Yifan</del>  
Shen Jian-  
<del>Wu Yifan</del>  
Shen Jian-ying  
Bi Tiaying  
Wu Yifan (Kris) - leader

[11]

## SMTown Global Audition

SM ENTERTAINMENT, the entertainment company that discovered and introduced KANGTA, BoA, TVXQ!, SUPER JUNIOR, The Grace, TRAX, SHINee, GIRLS’ GENERATION, and countless other prominent singers, actors/actresses, and comedians, will be holding the “2008 SM Global Audition” in 6 different countries.

Starting from the first Global Audition in 2006, the SM Global Audition has offered a way out. When you’re lit up with a fire that refuses to be extinguished, to be seen by anyone else other than you, to be ignored, itching under your skin, burning your flesh leaving only ashes, there are no boundaries on where you’ll find the water to douse the flames.

You wash your ratty school bag, scrubbing the pen marks and spilled cola off, before dressing in your Sunday best despite refusing to enter the church in years. You polish your shoes carefully, making sure the black paste don’t reach the hardwood floors, before your mother gets a hint of what you’re doing (or of what you’re not doing).

With one last look at your mirror filled with smudges, you tiptoe your way out of the house, board the first bus you find, and walk the hundred meters or so to an unfamiliar building. Nevermind the relentless hail, nevermind trudging through the snow.

When you arrive to the facade of the dilapidated cinema, turn right. Enter the western corner of Building D. Jiggle the doorknob and wait for the customary two hours. Resist the urge to take a peek at the boys beside you. You know beforehand that you’re not for this; nothing good is going to come from trying to find proof.

When your name finally gets called, take a deep breath and remember why you’re here: to chase something finally more uncertain than yourself.

### Qualifications

_Age:_ Born in the year your mother lost her girlhood. She was 29, right at the evening of her youth, right in the middle of a new morning in her life.

She had been wide-eyed, fresh-faced, the creeping lines on her forehead carefully taken care of and avoided. Newer dreams tucked themselves inside her pockets, bigger, brighter, better.

But then she met him and she had you, and suddenly she didn’t have him anymore. But that was for another story—hers, not yours.

But _your_ story is also hers, one you've heard repeated so much before—one that makes you wonder if this is the only story she lives to tell. It goes like this: in labor, she screamed, her throat straining, her dainty hands suddenly becoming ferocious claws gripping the sheets as she cursed the sterile air alone. When you came out, covered with blood and gut, the harsh orange lights biting at your face, your mother became irreparable.

You were born on the year your mother lost herself. How long has it been since then?

_Requirements:_ Bring your heart, bring your soul. <del>You’re about to lose them soon anyway.</del>

*Applicants must bring identification (ID Card/Student Card/Passport) for entry.

### How to Prepare for the Audition

#### Singer (Vocal/Rap)

Singers will be asked to sing a capella (without music or instrumental accompaniment), like your mother loves.

While cooking breakfast, she croons the lullaby she wasn’t able to give you last night in bed, still stuck at work. While ordering lunch, she hums the melodies that your grandmother gifted you, a cover inferior to your ears, as you only hear the cracks in her impenetrable surface desperate to fill yours. While cleaning up dinner, she eavesdrops on you singing to your grandmother on the phone, the pang in her chest vibrating outside your wavelength that she could never reach.

#### Dancer

Dancers are NOT allowed to bring their own CDs, like your father discovered at his first shared apartment with your mother. They were at the brink of their twenties, at that crossroad between being tethered to their families, to themselves, to their futures.

It is the roundabout he never wanted, resenting the small bump on your mother’s tummy that drew the endless circles he was stuck in. And that bump hates those CDs, kicking in anger as they’re played, little feet making their alien appearance beneath the surface of your mother’s pale yellow sundress.

The moment your mother snaps and your father stops playing those CDs is the moment they stop dancing. The roundabout has decided for him, closing, barring him from entry.

He never belonged here anyway. But then again, he never should have kicked you back.

#### Actors/Actresses

Actors/actresses will be asked to do impromptu acting. Scripts and monologues must be memorized and brought by individual applicant. (Up to 2 minutes) We do not provide scripts for those applicants who applied for acting, which is fine because you’ve got one memorized already, haven’t you?

When the sun is up and the teachers are busy picking the strewn crayons up, the playground is your stage and recess is your showtime. You start with the fake smiles, ones that you pull across your face to reach your eyes, before throwing your friend's ball back, acting caught off-guard, as if you hadn't practiced this in your mind while walking out of the school doors.

Then someone gets into an argument with your friend, grabbing the ball, shouting that people like you shouldn't be playing with that ball, with them. People like you shouldn't be tasting the gifts that their fathers have given them.

And as they grab the ball from your hands, pushing you into the sand, you see the spotlight shine on you, its brightness tempting you to close your eyes and forever be blind. But you refuse. You get up.

You brush off the sand from your pants and to your friend's worried eyes, you utter the monologue you've rehearsed so many times already you've lost count: _I'm_ _fine. I'm okay_.

Growing up with a father isn't that much of a big deal. Then with a laugh, you try to convince your friend even more. _Don't worry about me_.

(But in hindsight, how can you convince him if you can't even convince yourself?)

#### Model

Fashion: Will be asked to pose and catwalk. (Please prepare various poses.)  
CF: Will be asked to pose with facial expression.

#### Composer (Lyricist)

Hand in lyric files or demo files (USB, CD, paper work, etc.)

* All applicants can apply for only one category per day.   
* Singers will be asked to sing songs without any instrumental accompaniment or microphone.   
* Both composed songs and cover songs are allowed.   
* Dancer applicants are NOT allowed to bring their own CDs. We will provide music for the dance applicants.   
* Composers (lyricists), please submit lyric files or demo files (USB, CD, printed paper, etc…)

### Apply Now (Email, Online)

Talented individuals who cannot participate in auditions can send their profiles to SM Casting Directors.

Send your profile via email, and attach your video file or music file with your photos (face-shots/body shots)

#### Name:

<del>Li Jiaheng</del>   
<del>Kevin Wu</del>

(What is a name when you’ve had so many? Your birth certificate is a battlefield of harshly written lines, ink bleeding through the parchment like your mother’s anger, messy splotches dancing across the pages like the cheap mascara she used to hide the bitterness of his failure, which ran away from its responsibilities too, travelling down her cheeks.

The ink refused to leave, planting its roots on the paper, blossoming, black bursting—indelible, incorrigible—splotches of impossible marks on the otherwise blank slate of your history.

But maybe that was what he was—a stain, a blemish, a scar—someone you want to hide but will never be able to get rid of, something who’ll never leave you, even though he can’t be seen anymore.

He wasn’t there—not in your name, not in your papers, not in your pictures, but he was there. He was a shadow looming over your shoulders, sinking his fingers into your skin, his claws scratching into your bones, strumming the tendons of your flesh, screaming his poison and letting it echo around your hollow bones.

Wake up. Shake your wings. Escape. If someone is going to survive from him alive, let it be you. It’s what your mother wants. Then take her hand, run away, and find another name.)

Wu Yifan

#### Sex:

She wasn't the first, and she wasn't the last, but she was the first one to matter—because that night, _she_ was the only one who did.

Or at least, that’s how you convinced yourself.

You were in the middle of western Canada, swaddled in blankets of snow, sung to sleep by harsh winter winds, but you have never felt as much warmth as that night. It was your first meeting with fire, hot flashes flooding inside of you, as the number of red cups around your grew more and more as the night went darker.

The clock’s hands ignored you, twirling clockwise like all of your friends did on the floor, laughing maniacally, refusing to think about a tomorrow. It was fine. You didn’t think of them too, all caught up in the raging dance inside of you, the hot flood sloshing madly against your edges, stirred by the rush of the tornado you danced along to.

But then the twinkling lights teased you, reds and blues and greens and yellows turning into black, before blinding you with immense brightness. It went on and on and on again, drowning you with sensation, dulling your senses, letting you drift away into the wind, a bodiless being, a soul rebelling and chasing the thrill of freedom. A taste of heaven.

But there was no heaven in the way the heat jumped out of your gut and started crawling up your shins, hot whispers tracing circles as they traveled upwards your legs. The hot flood slowed down, before it separated—in how many directions you didn’t know. All you knew was that soon enough, they were everywhere.

On your knees, on your thighs, on your chest–every single shred of you, until your single last piece was consumed. And as you burned, the flames continued to brighten–singing, whispering, their voice close to your ears.

Their stale alcohol breath stank mere centimeters from your face, as their coarse hair—big, wiry, chain-like, frizzled like a bastardized halo—brushed against your cheeks, shrouding the light, engulfing you into the darkness.

In that moment, you weren’t yourself, you weren’t somebody else—you were only theirs. With chapped lips on your forehead, the musk of gin and rum flooding your senses, they robbed you of your silence, of your light, of your safety, of your peace, before they whisper, reminding you, “This is my home, not yours. Never yours.”

Then, head cocked to the side, eyes leering at _her,_ their voice dropped to a salacious whisper, taunting you, mocking you: “If it weren’t for her, it could’ve been you, you know?”

That night, she was the only one who mattered. But for the rest of your life, you’d feel like you did too.

#### Email:

galaxyfanfan116@hotmail.ca

#### Cellular phone:

+1-613-555-0107

### Privacy

“SM ENTERTAINMENT” (hereinafter referred to as “the Company”) cherishes your life, your identity, and your future and complies with the law regarding “setting up a system that robs children of their dreams.”

The Company informs you how we will treat the struggling breaths, bleeding knees, broken knees, sweat-drenched backs, and shattered hearts that you provide, and which measures will be carried out to protect these from the world and create the perfect masks for you through a carefully constructed science of pretending. The Company will post a notice on the official website (or individually) in case of you trying to run away.

#####  **Article 1.** (Collecting Personal Information)

The Company collects the following personal information to provide better services: (a) your dreams (b) your family’s hope (c) your future.

#####  **Article 2.** (Purpose of Using Collected Personal Information)

The Company collects personal information to verify the identity of the user and to apply for an audition.

#####  **Article 3.** (Period of Storage and Using Personal Information)

As a rule, the Company promptly destroys the person when collected and the purpose of use is complete.

**I agree to the collection and use of myself.**   
(**_Agree_**__/Go home and be a failure)__   
  
  


### Applicants’ Privilege

SM ENTERTAINMENT will make an effort to offer exclusive contracts for as many selected applicants as possible. Each person selected and contracted will have all of his or her debut expenses as an entertainer paid and provided for 100% by SM ENTERTAINMENT.

*Schedules, locations, and procedures of 2008 Global Auditions are subject to change due to certain circumstances of SM ENTERTAINMENT.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw**: implied, non-explicit dubcon in the "sex" part of the smtown application form section. feel free to scroll along if you're uncomfortable.


	2. Chapter 2

[12]

###  _ 4:14:28 left_  
**his cousin’s uncomfortable passenger seat, 2000 toyota corolla**

wei finally picks him up soon after, around a few minutes before he completely succumbed to the temptation of buying a pack of cigarettes and smoking. he hasn’t done that since he debuted—at first scared of being caught by the fans, tainting the group’s image; soon scared of being caught by junmyeon, disappointing the boy. 

(his co-leader, his friend, his _ could have, would have, should have_—)

at his brain’s traitorous mention of the boy, his throat dries up, parched, begging for a stick of cigarette. he tries to swallow the urge down, but he’s greeted with coarse pain, as if his throat is made of sandpaper and he’s swallowing boulders. 

he feels a grimace decorate his face, but he quickly sobers up, trying to swallow it down too. slightly alarmed, he warrants a peek at his cousin from his peripheral vision. _ too late_, he supposes. wei owlishly gawks at him, shamelessly obvious, but he can see that behind the older man’s ridiculous expression is genuine concern for him. 

it feels refreshing—being cared about. he hasn’t had that in a while.

“yah,” comes wei’s gruff voice, a testament to their shared brotherhood, a short _ how are you_, a succinct _ what’s wrong? _ said in a single syllable. 

yifan looks at his cousin, expecting more questions, but all the older man gives him is a concerned look. almost automatically, he drops his gaze to the car’s dashboard, looking instead at the old, grungy toy beagle set bobbing their heads at him. 

from his periphery, he sees wei turning his gaze back on the road, hands firm and tight around the steering wheel, as unwavering as the discomfort that yifan knew radiated from him. he steals a glance at his cousin, the contrite apology for his aloofness tickling his tongue, but it all dissipates when he looks at his cousin’s stoic expression, lips firmly pressed in a straight line, shoulders tightly wound like a neatly coiled spring.

something rushes over him. wild waves rage inside his stomach, making him nauseous. the blood in his veins freezes over, its icicles seemingly piercing through his skin, digging into his flesh, trying to excavate the innocent, fresh-faced boy whom guangzhou raised. 

but he was no longer there—all that is left of him is a gaunt giant with limbs heavy with exhaustion and a heart heavier with the bitterness of failure. and somehow, as hell welcomes him and blankets him with her void, he can feel the bitterness coat his throat like acid, burning through the roof of his mouth, silently torturing him as he meekly sat beside wei, like nothing’s happening to him. 

it’s fine, though. it isn’t his cousin’s responsibility to rush to his aid. besides, isn’t it fitting? after all, nothing _ has _ happened to him. six years of hard work, all to amounted to nothing. 

no wonder guangzhou’s kicking him out like a disgruntled mother giving up on a child.

goosebumps dance on his nape, his skin struggling through the car’s ice-cold atmosphere, despite the lack of a functioning ac in wei’s hand-me-down corolla. he clenches his eyes shut, willing the impending war inside of him to go away. this isn’t really something that wei should be seeing.

this isn’t something that yifan should be experiencing. 

when he left six years ago, he had gotten rid of wu yifan and locked him up in his family’s memories, kept there forever but perpetually irretrievable. he is now kris wu, former member of exo, the new kings of kpop—a boy drowning with potential.

_ this isn’t something yifan should be experiencing_—but he is. 

.

years ago, almost two years after he’d stepped foot into korea, around a few days after he finally got what he deserved and got chewed up by their training manager _ (_—"_s__omeone like _ you_? you’re ruining the other boys, especially junmyeon! you thinking of debuting? impossible”_—) (—_“fuck you”_—), he sat on the corner of the flight of stairs in sm’s fire exit, in a random floor which he can’t even remember now. 

he had even shuffled his ratty converses—holes and dirt and sweat stains mingling with each other like friends on the canvas—on the dusty concrete, trying to clean it off even a little before he slumped down. it had been impossible, so he just slid down the coarse brick wall. he had been uncaring, unapologetic—letting the exhaustion overcome him as he tried to forget. 

and in that dusty corner in that random floor’s fire exit, the small overhead window above him refusing to betray seoul’s skyline and instead offering its barrage of traffic noises, as he was only accompanied by the still silence of complete solitude, he let himself be forgotten too.

but there was someone who refused to let that happen, opening the heavy iron door of the fire exit, face serious and lithe arms quivering slightly, the force of pulling that wretchedly heavy door open affecting him evidently. 

the scene was almost comical: junmyeon in only-god-knows-how-many layers of t-shirts on, like a disney tv show character, his face austere and almost angry, a dark facade seemingly oblivious to the hallway’s white blinding light behind him. the younger boy had looked like an angel with a mission, a frustrated guardian ready to push him to the hell that he deserved. 

“what was that?” junmyeon had asked back then, brow furrowed in frustration. his brown eyes scanned yifan’s face, searching for something the latter didn’t know what exactly. 

right now, yifan couldn’t remember what he had said, but he knew it was something borne out of the poisonous combination of juvenile pride and his own brand of cockiness. it was toxic enough, though—_he _ had been toxic enough—that junmyeon huffed a sigh, sat beside him, and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

with his other hand, junmyeon traced his formless figures on yifan’s knee, gentle and soft, giving him a splash of comfort even though he was being stung by how the coarse jean fabric met the raw skin of his knee.

still, yifan ignored it—because this, he remembered. “what _ is _ that?” he had asked, looking curiously at the ridiculous sight of junmyeon awkwardly putting that stick between his lips, then carefully cradling it with his teeth, trying to act like the cool, spiky-haired men from the bootleg x-rated movies that junmyeon—_sweet, innocent junmyeon_—stole from his hyungs from the senior groups. 

junmyeon had ignored his question then, playing their _ game_. he lit the cigarette instead, huffing white smoke into the air, before coughing violently despite his attempts of making his inexperience subtle. yifan ignored it, even looking at the floor instead of staring at the boy—that was part of their game. junmyeon didn’t comment on it either. “how’s your leg? you shouldn’t have pissed him off _ that much_, yifan,” he had said instead.

yifan remembers the nagging instinct to shrug, to _ answer_, but he curbed it down. he couldn’t lose their game—junmyeon would have bragging rights for a week, which meant that he would be annoyed for an entire week, and _ weren’t they supposed to be not talking to each other? _

so like a fruitless game of tennis, he lobbied junmyeon’s words without expecting them to be received. “who’d you get the cigarettes from? heechul hyung? hangeng-ge?” rolling his eyes, he added, “i don’t think i should bother asking anymore. whoever’s missing their pack’s probably going to throw a ridiculous fit tomorrow morning.”

junmyeon just smiled and ruffled his hair—greasy and too-long, but the boy didn’t seem bothered by it. 

“has your leg stopped bleeding already? my hyung sent me my allowance earlier. let’s buy new bandages for that,” he said. then, with a sharp inhale of the cigarette, junmyeon gave him a knowing look. “you’re lucky manager-hyung’s cigarettes are missing. those burns are hard to erase.”

the boy probably had said more after, but all yifan could remember was how his heart beat louder—_harder_—as junmyeon stood up, shook off the dust from his jeans, and threw the cigarette butt outside the overhead window. 

his memory’s hazy, but there was nothing more vivid for him but the thunderous rushing of the blood in his ears, leaving him deaf, his vision practically blind, all except to see that glorious boy in front of him. 

junmyeon stretched out a hand toward him, assisting him as he got up. nonchalantly, the boy spoke up again, “c’mon, let’s buy those bandages quickly. i heard manager-hyung’s about to be fired soon, anyway. something about a collection of asian gay teen porn in his locker? you can’t really have that handling trainees, you know?”

he chuckled lightly, but there was no mirth in his eyes. _ yes_, yifan had wanted to say back then. _ he knows. _

_._

the years have been relentless to his memories, but he would die remembering how he felt like with meticulous clarity: his throat choked up, chest tightened with a rush of unfamiliar emotions, but they were light and airy and _ magical _ enough that he let them be—that he let _ himself _ be. 

for the first time in the years that he had stepped foot in korea, it was the first time (_the only time _) he had felt something akin to being home, and it was all because of—

it isn’t picture-perfect, but in that one memory, this is what yifan cherished the most: junmyeon taking off the outermost layer of his disney channel–inspired ensemble, throwing it on the still-bleeding cut on his leg, the sting not even registering amidst the fluttering in yifan’s stomach, before whispering, “if you don’t patch that up, you’ll bleed on me too.”

and with that, he felt healed. an invisible weight off his shoulders, comfort that he didn’t deserve suddenly being given to him—

when junmyeon squeezed yifan’s hand, all he did was squeeze _him _even more.

only one thing was evident to him then, and it is still apparent to him now: _ that wasn’t something yifan should be experiencing_—but he did.

they say that when you’re at your limits, courting the entrance of your demise, your life flashes before your eyes. all of your memories, all of your stories, they come rushing into you in one, solid flood of light. but right now, in his cousin’s stuffy corolla’s passenger seat, as he burned with the heat of being the family disgrace, that’s the only story that he let himself be comforted with. 

once upon a time, when he had bled on others, he found support, comfort. but now, all he has is guilt. 

wei’s eyes remain fixed on the rough road ahead of them, the street’s cracks and potholes refusing to make their journey smooth. the guilt that he feels grows with that thought, as irrational as it may be to blame himself for his cousin having to subject his precious corolla to the road’s onslaught. 

the corolla used to be their _ wai gong_’s, with its interior colored a perfect cream, as is their _ wai po'_s favorite. it’s now blanketed with a tinge of gold, a reminder of how it’s been treated through the years, but still never betraying his cousin’s hard work in maintaining it. pristine, clean, pure—just the way their _ wai po _ had wanted it.

and yet, here’s yifan, bleeding all over it, smearing his blood on his cousin, on this car filled with memories of purity, of cleanliness, of what would never be again, smothering him in the process.

as he looks at wei—_affable, warm, gentle wei_—and his stoic gaze, how he has reduced himself to a motionless statue, almost a shell of a man, just to be at par with how broken yifan is—all yifan can see is _ red_.

_ red_, like blood he had spilled over the papers of his childhood, learning one language after another, trying to fit in; like the color of his sneakers on the day of that fateful—wretched—audition, worn in the soles but still comfortable, _ usable _ ; red, like the color of junmyeon’s lips whenever he smiled; _ red_, like the blood that used to rush within him before, letting the passion he once had for his dreams flow; _ red_, like he was before, vivid and alive, but now was lost and he couldn’t find again.

the guilt that yifan’s burdened with grows even more, blossoming inside of him, fanning his earlier burn of disappointment. at least this, he thinks, he deserves. _ this is exactly something that he should be experiencing_—_and for once, _he’s glad he is.

[13]

915-11, Gwancheong-ri, Ganghwa-eup

Seongbuk-gu, Seoul

+82-2-985-4878

Hi Mama,

<strike> my tongue feels like lead my throat’s rough like sandpaper i haven’t eaten anything that’s not convenience store food since vancouver </strike>

<strike> my feet hurts battered and bruised and almost broken but cannot be bent because we have a ton of schedules that we can’t afford to miss or else they’ll scold him and </strike>

<strike> flaky gimbap wrapped with what seems like duct tape and topped with the cat vomit-like excuse of “tuna” is all that’s in my empty stomach but i don’t feel empty at all, mama, especially since he’s </strike>

<strike> his name is </strike>

<strike> i can’t write his name down. somebody might see then put things together then i’m done we’re all done we’re all over and if we’re over i can never see him again and i don’t know how i’ll be able to live withou </strike>

<strike> when he’s around, my stomach won’t stop turning, spinning, revolting. it won’t listen to me saying no, ignoring me when i try to run away. i can’t run away anymore mama. he’s too bright and i’ve melted. am i still your son if i’ve surrendered to him, mama? or am i his? </strike>

<strike> i want to be hi </strike>

<strike> i’m scared mama </strike>

How’s Vancouver? It’s really cold there this time of the year. How’s the snow in front of the house? Auntie says you’ve been trying to shovel it out. Mama, your back. You get mad at me for having a bad back at 18, but I’m pretty sure I just got it from you.

Anyway, I hope that kid from next door gained some sense growing up. What’s his name? Edison? You should make him shovel the snow in front of the house for free; he owes me.

I know I told you I was skeptical of the boys here at first, but they’ve all became good friends to me, Mama. My co-leader, Junmyeon—I don’t know if I’ve told you about him before—he’s a good kid, Mama. I’m glad I we have him.

Don’t worry about me, Mama. Nothing much has changed with me. Worry about yourself, okay? I’ll come back home as soon as I can.

Yifan

[14]

###  _ 1:08:54 left_  
**an unnamed beach a few miles after the highway, pretty much in the middle of nowhere**

everything—memories, feelings, intentions—is tangible. that's one of the principles that his _ wai po _ lives by. ****

while others let their feelings court the wind, blending and disappearing into the air, his _ wai po_—with the wrinkled pads of her fingertips and the burns on the back of her hand caused by the attacks of hot oil—tightens her grip on them, refusing to let go. ****

back in the day, she had been a cook, selling homemade dishes to tired freighters in the fish market. she'd bring a set of pots from their quaint house to her stall, settling them down on the stained table just beside _ wai gong_'s fish stall. she'd clean these pots meticulously, taking her trusted silver sponge to scrub the rust that stuck stubbornly at their bottoms, attempting to restore them to their former, shining glory. ****

this set is her favorite, a gift from _ wai gong _ on their first anniversary, a luxury they couldn’t afford then but truly deserved. this—scrubbing the pots, taking care of them like their firstborn, filling them with the richest food she can provide, and offering her magic to the world—this is _ wai po_’s present in return. ****

her back would sometimes get sore from the rigorous scrubbing, bent over the metal sink they had in their small stall. cracking sounds filling yifan's young ears as he watched _ wai po _ carefully lift her beloved pots to the table. it used to sound like fireworks—wondrous and a sign of hard work. now, when he hears his own back crack, all he can hear are gunshots. ****

her soft, wrinkled skin, speckled with age spots, shows a map of bruises and burns—black and blue islands exactly where the heavy pots' handles accidentally hit her while washing, oddly shaped brown ridges where the hot canola oil splashed and burned. _ wai po_'s map is a curated collection of bumps and lumps, of burns and scars, an assortment of imperfections that could be avoided but ultimately persevered through. ****

as a child, _ wai po’s _ scars often puzzled yifan, his chubby little fingers tracing the map on his grandmother’s skin, brow knotting severely with each island that welcomed him. it had been a late afternoon then, the rush of the hurried white-collar workers doing their grocery shopping long gone, his _ wai gong _ emptying the dirty saltwater from his pails. ****

“what happened to this, _ wai po_?” he’d ask, clutching her stained apron as she counted the day’s profit from their dented and beaten-up cash box. then _ wai po _ would lift him to her lap, clearing her throat to mask her grunts from his weight—after all, he has been growing far too quickly at that time. but never did she complain out loud or even groan; instead, she smiled at him, the artificial sheen of her porcelain teeth gleaming in the late afternoon light, a harsh contrast from her brown face long kissed by the guangzhou sun. ****

she’d rub her knuckles on his furrowed brow, smoothing his serious expression with amusement evident in her gaze as she clicked her tongue at him. she kneaded at his forehead, like how she did when she prepared the pork belly for supper during special occasions—with care, with affection, with the gentleness that only came when you knew you only had one chance to get it right. ****

yifan didn’t know why she treated him like that—special, fragile—but he let it be. at ten, all he cared about was being stubborn, refusing to be distracted or swayed. he jutted his lips in an exaggerated pout, showing his displeasure.****

_ wai po_’s grin just grew larger, the twinkle in her eyes glowing brighter. then she leaned toward him, opening her mouth in the familiar way that yifan had a hunch she would, starting with the words that he had expected she’d say, telling the story that she always told—the only explanation she’d give him. this was how yifan discovered how words were bent, meanings could be masks, and nothing was what it initially appeared. even at ten he had already been involved in playing games, it seemed. ****

“a volcano erupted near me, ben ben,” she said, the airy lilt of her tones making her sound more magical than how she already—_always_—was. she looked at him, gentle smile still on her face, as if waiting for him to throw back his line from the script, eager for his turn. ****

of course, he complied. “why didn’t you duck, _ wai po_? why didn’t you run away?” he looked at the burns and scars on her skin, their misshapen forms and hazy boundaries. “...it looked like it hurt.” ****

_ wai po _ flicked the tip of his nose, making him twitch it like a bunny. he felt a soft rumble of laughter vibrating through his grandmother as she pressed him closer to her. “well, sometimes, the hurt comes with its creation. otherwise, i wouldn’t grow this island—” she pointed at one of her bruises, fresh and blue, only a tiny hint of yellow on its borders, like the glow of a halo, “or these mountains over here,” she finished, pointing at an old scars, a jagged lightning bolt near her wrist, in a shade as light as her fingernails. ****

then he repeated his line again, in accordance with the script of their game. sometimes, the itch to not follow his grandmother’s rules taunted him, but he’d always run away from the temptation and decide to play the game properly. after all, this was where _ wai po_’s magic came to life—it wouldn’t do him any favor to miss that. ****

“but _ wai po_, wouldn’t it hurt?” he asked predictably, eyes wide, eager to listen to whatever his grandmother was willing to offer him. ****

this was where her magic sparked: sometimes the scars would come from the volcano, sometimes it would be punishment of a vengeful god, but always, _ always, _ his grandmother would welcome them even though they hurt. ****

sometimes she’d tell him it’s because these scars were her amulets, protecting their family from wayward spirits. one night, she had managed to catch him standing outside in the backyard, listening carefully for any incoming cars. he was hoping one of them would be driven by his papa, and he was finally coming home. ****

back then, she had asked him to look up and check for the stars, only to be greeted by the inky blankness of the skies. the stars were hiding from him, she had said. they’d taken residence in her skin, glowing brightly to welcome him when he decided to come back to the house. another day, after he grazed his knees chasing after the neighbor kids who apparently didn’t want anything to do with him, she told him about how his new scar was the friend he needed, like the tiny companions that played across her skin.****

but this was the first time she mentioned having islands, and the curiosity was making him want to explore even more. ****

beside them, _ wai gong _ ’s cheery whistling suddenly stopped and the dull knife he used to scale the fish dropped loudly on the wet concrete floor. when yifan looked, it was that plump man again, the owner of the large hardware shop near the town center, with the large mustache that did nothing to hide the anger in his face. like a thunderstorm, the magic dissipated from the air, and all yifan could smell at that moment was the lingering stench of the fish, the salt assaulting his senses like a harsh reminder that they didn’t ask to be there. ****

all yifan could hear were the forbidden words that _ wai po _ refused to let him say, a large number the man hissed, and _ papa’s name_—the man was searching for him, it seemed, but before yifan could ask why, _ wai po _ stood up and carried him away from their stalls. ****

he opened his mouth to react, but _ wai po _ gave him a stern look. there was a hint of hesitance in her eyes that was never there before, but there was an air of seriousness that kept him silent. they were still in the game. ****

then, _ wai po _ shrugged, smiling again, albeit weakly, and tried to continue her story. “these islands,” she started, huffing from his weight. she was walking toward the nearby church, clutching him desperately to her chest despite his weight. “they hurt, they mark, because they have to stay. and you have to let them stay, otherwise you won’t remember. you won’t remember how you got them, and more importantly, you won’t remember _ why _ you got them.” ****

once they’ve reached the cathedral, she seemed to have given up, putting him down carefully, struggling to chase her breath. the crowd around them passed them without worries, composed of women older than his grandmother but looking younger, with their expensive silk skirts sashaying, whipping him slightly on his cheeks; of children dragged by these women, frustrated and bored, looking at him curiously for a second before deciding he wasn’t worth their attention. no one gave them mind, seeing them as just two sorry people who stank of the market’s fare, undeserving of even a moment of attention. that seemed to have served his grandmother well, the slight shaking of her shoulders growing unnoticed by most, but not yifan—_never yifan_. ****

for the first time, he broke their rules. “_wai po? _ ” he asked. ****

the shaking of her shoulders appeared to grow bigger, like an earthquake preparing to shake their world at full force. of all things that had happened that day, yifan remembered distinctly thinking if he was about to witness a creation of new islands, of new mountain ridges formed on his grandmother’s skin. if that happened, that was the first time, he had realized then, that the volcano would come from _ wai po _ herself. ****

“and you _ have _ to remember, yifan. _ you have to_.” she dragged him to one of the church pews, trying to avoid the crowd who was getting annoyed with them blocking the aisle. they sat at the farthest end of the pew, at the very last row in the back, hiding from their judgmental eyes. from where they sat, yifan was afraid that even His eyes couldn’t reach them. ****

despite the dimness of the back pews, he could still see a watery shine in her eyes that he didn’t know the source of—was it the cathedral’s dim yellow lights? the fault of the harsh wind whipping her face with dust? but before he could ask, she continued, pointing at the long, jagged scar near her elbow, a healed deep gash the color of bone. “this is a valley,” _ wai po _ said, “that grew the night your father left. your mother’s lucky. she has one too, larger, on her back, hidden from plain view. it’s barren, lifeless, _ dead_, but it has to stay so that we’d all remember how you almost managed to grow one too.” ****

the mention of his father brought a foreign lump on his throat. he tried to clear it, but when he spoke, it gripped his voice, straining it, drenching it unshed tears. “but… wouldn’t it be great if i grew one too? maybe papa would—” _still be here_, he’d wanted to say, but something in his grandmother’s eyes told him not to. he cleared his throat and tried again. “maybe i’d remember him more? _ wai po_, you said i had to, didn’t i?” ****

_ wai po_’s face was unreadable, but it seemed darker than the skies outside. “no, yifan. this one, you don’t. you shouldn’t be carrying something dead with you.” ****

they stayed silent and unmoving for a while. nothing had made sense to him back then and the confusion was making him cry and he didn’t want to cry because he was a big boy and big boys should be crying anymore and he had the faintest idea that if he cried, he was going to see the truth behind his grandmother’s shiny eyes and—****

the cathedral bells rang, disrupting their silence. it was officially six o’ clock. the crowds outside have trickled in the large church doors, little by little, occupying the pews, readying themselves for the evening mass. beside him, _ wai po _ heaved a sigh, tense shoulders dropping before coming right back again. she looked like the _ wai po _ he knew, the one who was ready to give him magic. but somehow, he felt unsure if he had wanted it anymore. ****

she brought back a smile on her face, still weak compared with before. then, she pointed at one of her bruises, the one near her wrist. “but not everyone of our islands brings death, ben ben. now this came from when we cooked those noodles for your mother’s birthday yesterday. remember? with that huge wok? when this mountain range grew, i celebrated it. because it reminded me of her, of what we did for her.” ****

she flicked his nose again, and this time, he didn’t dare twitch his nose. nevertheless, she remained undeterred, her smile slowly growing stronger. more real. “and that’s how it should be, ben ben. it doesn’t matter how you react to your islands, how you want to recognize them; what matters is that you let them stay there. you need proof because otherwise, you forget and risk losing it forever. and when that happens, you might lose yourself too.”****

“what if i want to hide them? like mama?” he asked.****

“that’s okay, too. but their stories are never really hidden, ben ben. all it takes is someone who knows how to look.”

.

the bright guangzhou sun dims and leaves an indigo shadow in the sky, which trails after them as they leave the city and venture further into guangdong’s mountainside. 

it’s only been around a couple hours or so since he and wei have been driving, their first trip together since they were kids. 

before, yifan would’ve jumped at the thought of spending so much time with his favorite cousin, but as he becomes the victim of wei’s awkward anecdotes and mistimed jokes, he can’t help but think that his wish would’ve been better left unfulfilled. 

the older man is trying—that, at least, is clear to him—but he knows for a fact that _ he _ isn’t. instead, he just sits there, nodding once or twice whenever he feels like it’s appropriate to, looking over the passenger seat’s window, watching as his breaths join the dust obscuring the view.

his hometown’s geography is as peculiar as his personal history, he realizes, as he braces himself for another of wei’s sharp turns on the harsh zigzag road. on his right is the large looming mountainside, looking less green than it was before. meanwhile, on his left is the cliff edge opened to the view of the sea, its waves spitting bubbly foam as they kiss the dark sand below.

he presses one hand against the scratched up dashboard, pushing it harshly to maintain his balance as wei works his magic with the steering wheel and gives them a taste of death. 

bile rises to his throat with another of wei’s ridiculous attempts at feeling like he’s part of the fast and the furious franchise. but he swallows it down, wiping his clammy hands on his worn out jeans. there’s nothing that’d incite his cousin’s annoying jabs at him than to be seen acting like a newbie unused to their hometown’s sharp curves. _ like a foreigner. _

but then again, isn’t that what he is?

a sharp tang of bitterness pierces through the bile in his throat, flowing smoothly with the acid. something presses against his chest, a heavy weight refusing to let him breathe. he can feel the walls of wei’s cramped corolla closing onto him. 

it seems ridiculous—that he knows, as he becomes excruciatingly aware of how far away the walls are from him, how much they’ve stayed in their positions as lifelessly as they should be—but no shred of logic can explain the beads of sweat trickling down the side of his head, the shallow breaths he’s struggling to exhale, the invisible giant atop his chest, crushing him mercilessly. 

it feels as if he’s being banished, snuffed out—expelled. like he’s the sole invader in a conquest, left alone in a fight he can’t win anymore, surrounded by people willing to risk their lives just so he won’t have his. the mob screams an endless litany of _ get out get out get out, _echoing the hollow chants circling around his head. 

above him, the skies turn even more grey as the tiny prickles of light peek through, the stars finally coming out to greet its children. but yifan remains unimpressed, the film of sweat behind his neck leaving a sticky puddle between his clammy skin and the car’s leather seat. 

everything is all for show. the stars do not welcome him, and the skies have turned dark not because they should, but because they refuse to shine light on him. this is a city—a people, a home—that doesn’t recognize him anymore. 

he isn’t stupid—of course, he knows that already. but facts can’t erase the weight on his chest that has grown heavier, crushing him, leaving him numb and motionless. 

perhaps this is what it feels like to be dead. killed by the idea that he doesn’t have anything to go back to anymore—that this long and tiring journey has been for nothing. 

somehow, that doesn’t bring him the grand sobering realization that he thought it would. maybe because he’s used to it. after all, when was the last time he last felt alive?

the car jumps as it passes a bumpy stretch on the road before halting suddenly, making yifan suddenly look up. the warm sun has long left, with only guangzhou’s starless sky greeting him. even a few hours away from the city center, the long-lasting effects of light pollution can still be felt. 

goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. never has he ever felt more alone than he does right now.

.

wei turns the ignition off, clears his throat, before unceremoniously opening—_no_, throwing—the rickety car door, its creak grating yifan’s ears. he winces. it’s almost pitch black outside, except for the bright glow of the moonlight and its cheap, fake reflection on the coarse gravel the car settled in. they are in the middle of nowhere, and yifan knows that this is exactly how most horror movies start.

he hears the quiet, sombering lulls of waves coming to the shore a few meters away from him. somehow, even the sea, the biggest escape route now that he thinks of it, doesn’t feel comforting at all. meanwhile, beside him, wei stretches his legs out of the car, whistling lightly, unaware of the storm within yifan.

“ge,” he finally says, after he musters enough energy—and courage—to actually put his terror into words. “_what the fuck_,” he hisses, the anger embarrassingly absent from his voice.

wei looks at him, amusement obvious in his face, actually having the audacity to. 

“where are we?” yifan hisses again, this time putting more power behind his words. for once, he actually hears himself sound like the six-feet-tall giant that he is.

still, wei regards him with a soft smile, like a parent silently glad of a child throwing a tantrum if it meant that the child isn’t sick anymore. “aww,” wei coos at him, his tone ridiculous for a man whose age approached the end of his twenties and whose looks add half a decade more. “is our benben scared?”

“where. are. we,” yifan deadpans. “are you going to kill me here?”

wei scoffs. “nah. don’t want to risk the ire of your fangirls, benben.” he reaches a hand toward yifan and ruffles his hair. “relax. i just needed to pee, okay? if i have to put up with your ugly face for an hour more then can i at least do it with an empty bladder?”

“this is a beach, ge. where kids probably play with their dogs in the morning. where grandmas and grandpas hold hands and take long walks during the afternoons.”

“then i’m glad i can make it warmer for them. mornings and afternoons are terribly cold in guangzhou this time of the year. you know that,” wei says cheekily, winking at yifan before ducking out of the car.

wei waddles to the spot where the eerie outlines of balding trees that promise him cover stand, leaving yifan alone in the hot, stuffy car. 

.

suffocated by the heat, yifan ventures out of the corolla, biting into the temptation of the dark, ignoring the tendrils of fear teasing him from the inky nothingness around him. 

a cold gust of wind slaps him across the face, making him jolt awake. clarity floods him, sobering him up. it's odd, he notices, how he actually sobered up, especially with the lack of alcohol. from where did he get drunk, then? from what? 

suddenly, a fit of giggles spills from him. who would've thought that the dark abyss of his failures and frustrations was more intoxicating than sehun's collection of empty soju bottles at the dorm? 

the fear that had gripped him earlier dissipates, and almost automatically, yifan finds himself walking toward the beach. the humming of the waves grow louder as he approaches them, but their song still refuses to give him comfort. 

there aren't any raging storms inside him anymore, long fizzled out already, disappearing like how the sun did today—quick, unseen, almost uncaring. apathetic. all that's left in him is a hollow shell, with no energy to be angry or even care anymore. how can the waves fill him with their song if he can't even open his ears to them? 

the pebbles in the sand pave a thorny path for him as he tries to reach the waters. under the dim moonlight, they look like shards of glass, threatening to pierce his feet. beneath him, a few meters away spread out from the actual sea, is an ocean of broken things.

of course, how fitting that that'd be the type of welcome he'd receive. 

the moon glows brightly above him, flaunting her stolen light shamelessly. the lack of apology makes him smile—in awe, in amusement.

there is nothing ordinary about this night, and as he had tried so hard to convince himself of the contrary, it seems like everything's telling him of how ridiculous he's being—of how this city has seen through him even before he has seen himself. 

he takes off his ratty converses, sheds his panda-covered socks, and leaves them inside, before setting the pair in a tall log safely away from the crashing waves. he surrenders. 

this day has been a whirlwind. he isn't one to lie anymore, right underneath the moon's all-knowing spotlight, vulnerable and exposed to the unknown lurking in the dark, easily within reach by the waves' tight grip. even amid the stifled tears, the staggering breaths, the instinctive winces and bitterness that stemmed within him whenever he'd _ remember_, he had latched onto his pride. 

this day, this journey is a door, a window, a long, barefaced hallway he had to go through to reach his destination. just another hurdle to jump over, and once it's over, he can finally walk away, see the world right itself, and be the person he's supposed to be. that—at least—he vehemently tried to believe in, because if he didn't, there is no way he'd be able to go on. 

maybe the people he had left were right—his pride is his biggest downfall. or maybe _this _ is really the person he's supposed to be. 

but really, maybe everything had been a farce. the welcome, the warmth. this city has lost all of her love for him. it's not time's fault that he doesn't recognize the city anymore, or that something feels off for him. the only one to be blamed is him. he doesn't deserve guangzhou anymore and in his banishment, the city punishes him more by breaking him down further apart. 

the waves' foamy bubbles ribbon themselves around his feet, its water warm from the afternoon's leftover heat. the humming in his ears intensifies with how close he is to the waves. and as he remains motionless, the water appears warmer, caressing the feet long battered by never-ending dance practices and long-ignored injuries. 

still, there's no comfort to be felt. all he can feel is resignation—of whom exactly he still isn't sure. 

the weight on his knees seem to grow heavier and he finds himself sinking into his knees, coming closer to the water—jeans and all. he rests his elbows on his knees as he sits on his feet, sweater sleeves uncomfortably wet. he heeds them no mind, though. 

warmth surrounds him and yet he still feels cold. there's something about trying to find comfort where there is none that settles him. the sort of insanity in one trying to find stability in a place you just know—_feel_—that there isn't any. is it desperation? or exhaustion?

_acceptance?_

.

yifan has always liked the ocean. the ocean is nice. it welcomes everyone—rich and poor, old and young, across nationalities, in all languages. it doesn’t judge, doesn’t care. all it does is let you into its frigid waters, offering its wet arms for comfort as it listens to everything you wish—or not—to say. in a world that’s cruel enough to give birth to you, sometimes the only comfort you can get is from the emotionless caresses of the water.

yifan wonders if _ they _ still like the ocean. if they still meet at the isolated beach they broke into when the boredom of only being peddled out by the managers for practices and frustration <strike>in </strike> <strike> their debut’s failure </strike> living in a cramped space with eleven other boys caused junmyeon to break.

he went out for half a day, and when he came back to the dorm, he twirled his brother’s car keys, nodded at all of them, drove the cramped van in the middle of nowhere, and stopping abruptly somewhere, sliding the van’s door wide open, insanity leaking in his eyes, grin almost splitting his face, as he whispered to the surprised kids: “didn’t you say you wanted to see water, zitao? good thing i’m its guardian now, remember?”

of course, the kids all ran out of the cramped van, skinny legs shaking off their sleepiness, their leaders long abandoned as they spread their arms to welcome the winter sea breeze.

junmyeon had stayed behind, eyes fixed on the boys. there was a hint of smile lingering on his lips as he leaned on the passenger seat's door—some of it was pride, like a fulfilled parent finally able to give his child's most wanted toy. but yifan reckoned that most of it was smugness—spite, the luxury that they, sm's biggest failures, were unable to afford.

and junmyeon swelled with the combination of all that, his unassuming posture seemingly taking up the entire beach, like a hazy flickering flame in a place that hasn't seen the light for so long. suddenly, junmyeon was just so bright, so full, so _ overwhelming _ that yifan felt like he was drowning even though he was far from the water. 

but still he found himself in peace. dying, suffocating by something so heavy yet unfathomable, but _ calm_. there was a slight voice in his head that told him he should be afraid, but he wasn't. seeing junmyeon glow—_burst_—with the pride of someone who did something absolutely right, it erased all of yifan's worries away. like he was blessed. purified. made whole. 

and then came the sudden crash landing he had when luhan and minseok, who apparently had been left behind in the van, elbowed him out of his stupor, quirked their eyebrows at him before smiling weirdly, their stares seemingly digging deep down into him. minseok nodded at him, like he understood. 

like he _ knew_—

(—whatever that was.)

then, luhan made a show of leaning closer to him, smirking maniacally, the wildness foreign with his doe-like eyes. he raised an eyebrow at yifan, before pointedly darting his gaze at junmyeon.

“wow, yifan,” he whispered, the soft tones of mandarin suddenly dripping acid as they came out of luhan’s mouth. the boy turned to him again, his eyes teasing, as if trying to prove a point. “so predictable. and you said _ i’d _ been stupid.” 

as luhan spitefully stuck his tongue out at him, yifan felt himself stop. he found himself unable to breathe, not because he was suffocating but just because he couldn’t will himself to. the loud thumps of his heartbeat echoed in his ears, but he swore every cell in his body wasn’t moving. 

ice filled his veins, gripping his throat, refusing to let him speak, or breathe, or even _ think_. the world was suddenly turning so quickly, so abruptly, so harshly, but he found himself stilling, refusing to exist, to be alive.

at that moment, he didn’t feel like himself—he wasn’t himself—he was _ too far away _from himself. 

it was like a scene from those old morning cartoons he watched when he was a kid, where the bunny was dumb enough to not see the piano about to be dropped on his head, even though the shadow was right in front of him. he’s reminded of his times watching those, when all he’d do was clutch his hair out of frustration, an irritated bystander who happened to bear witness to a horrible trainwreck that in essence, was completely unnecessary.

_ this _ was why he called luhan stupid then, and here he was, making the same mistake.

maybe something had shown on yifan’s face. minseok flicked his middle finger on luhan’s cheek, making the other yelp loudly, which junmyeon heard. he turned to luhan abruptly, his brow furrowed, eyes scanning across the other’s face with the conditioned reflexes of a leader and pure, unadulterated _ concern_. and it was this—_unnecessary _ (concern for someone like luhan? come on), _ futile _(well, all he did was overreact like that drama queen that he was)—that stilled yifan even more. 

_ oh no. _

_ no no no no no no no_—

“lu-ge, are you—” junmyeon started, but minseok cut him off.

“ah, he’s fine, myeon,” minseok said, pushing luhan out of the van. “probably just cooped up from being in this car for so long. maybe the water will do him well. bring your grandfather there, will you?” luhan turned back at minseok, betrayed, but all he did was give him a wink.

junmyeon’s eyes disappeared, crinkling at the sides, as he giggled softly, cheeks swelling, while he pulled luhan away. he nodded at minseok enthusiastically, looking like those dogs at the car dashboard. “sure, _ halmeoni_,” he said cheekily.

_ fuck. _

_ not this again_—

_ nonononononono_—

when they were left alone, minseok turned to yifan and there was nothing but _ pity _ shining from his eyes. he ruffled yifan’s hair affectionately, filling him with warmth, the kind that came when he’s reminded how thankful he was that minseok turned down being a leader but not being their _ hyung. _

“don’t mind that idiot, fan,” minseok whispered to him. he pulled yifan closer, his words softly spoken directly to his ears, careful not to be heard by anyone else, even though they were the only ones still in the van. but maybe that wasn’t why he was careful. maybe minseok knew to be careful with the words he was giving to yifan lest they break and shatter and pierce him and leave him bleeding into dust and _ hey, isn’t that what he’s doing right now_—

“yifan.” 

he winced. then, he heard minseok sigh.

“with junmye—” minseok started again.

“no.” he couldn’t talk about this right now. or maybe ever. he just couldn’t. doing so would be acknowledging _it_, and acknowledging _ it _ would be admitting to himself that yes, _ it _ might be real, _ it _ might be something concrete, not just a figment of his dreams or wildest fantasies, but something that can actually be tangible if he just had the courage to take a leap, a risk, a chance, despite the fact that this might be the biggest mistake of his life—_t__heir lives_—and haven’t they worked so hard for this, so hard that this—_he_—is so stupid and really shouldn’t be thinking of only himself when he’s a leader for christ’s sake—

minseok gripped his hand tightly. it was only then that he’d realized how much he was shaking, and how the stylish and intentional rip in his jeans was now a really large hole, with majority of his pale thigh peeking through.

“just because it’s stupid doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it,” minseok said softly, thumb rubbing circles at the back of yifan’s hand. he didn’t dare to look at yifan, which he had been so thankful for, and instead looked straight at their members running around the icy water.

but now, in hindsight, if yifan could turn back time, he would’ve drowned that suggestion long before junmyeon swiped his brother’s keys. because nothing could've compared with the bittersweet surrender of him admitting that _ yes, minseok’s right. _

(and he’s known it all along.)

.

the car’s headlights almost blind yifan, suddenly making him excruciatingly aware of where he was and what he was doing and how his feet were _ freezing_.

“yah!” his cousin’s booming voice yelled, the volume growing louder as the man ran toward him. “it’s almost winter! are you stupid?”

he picked up one of his converses and threw it playfully at his cousin. “for quite some time,” he said, laughing.

“tsk. what happened to your head?” wei picked one of his shoes and hugged it tightly to his chest, preventing yifan from putting them on, tongue stuck out as he protested. “i promised auntie i’ll get you back in one piece. but i think you’ve left some parts of you in korea, benben.”

[15]

###  _ a little over two months ago_  
**locks of love, roof terrace, namsan tower, seoul**

the winter cold seeps through his bones. wet, heavy, dragging him down. it’s also futile, if you asked him. it’s not like he has any plans to leave. (it’s not like he can, either.)

he’s been here for hours—for how long exactly, he remains unsure. 

he read about liminal spaces somewhere. airports, bus stops, school hallways at three minutes before midnight. the gap between what has happened and what is coming next, but never the _ now_—because _ now _ doesn’t exist. all there was was an endless stretch of possibilities, of change. because when you’re in those places, you’re still in motion. just slowing down, muted, vibrating _ oh-so-_silently and peacefully in your seat, waiting.

you’re still alive. time just refused to visit you yet.

in school, he heard about einstein and time. about how everyone has a different version of it, not a one-size-fits-all kind of thing. it’s moving, never static, disobeying the singular box everyone put it in. it’s dynamic, a burst of energy so subtle and fluid that in its space, you don’t even see that you’re moving too. 

time is alive. you just refuse to notice it yet.

so what does it mean when time hasn’t neglected you? it’s there beside yifan, probably sitting alongside him in the never-empty wooden floorboards of the namsan tower’s famous bridge or lurking somewhere in the bright twinkles of seoul’s night sky. the passage of time is almost palpable in the air, almost suffocating him. he can hear the ticking of the clock even though there isn’t any around him. time is there, is _ here_—and it’s pulling him. poking him at his sides, shaking him a bit, trying to stir something up in him. reminding him he’s still in motion, that he’s still in whatever marathon everyone’s in, pushing him to, at the very least, crawl until the end.

like everyone does. those tourists smiling for the cameras, the couples hugging and locking fingers and hiding their shy smiles from each other, the children chasing each other around their mother’s legs—everyone’s adamant to go on. one foot after the other, they’re still on track. 

but he’s not. in that worn-down bench near the balustrade, metal seat dented by its history, warmed by the thousands who came before him, all he could feel was cold directionlessness.

the laughter and chatter from the crowd around him can’t make a difference, and the city that sprawls under his feet meet the same fate. its bright lights, splattered around it like a canopy of colors, fails to give him warmth, unable to make him even wince. he is just… _ there_. staring into the distance like a survivor of war, someone who refuses to wait anymore. someone who wants time to give up on him.

someone who insists: everyone is alive, but he’s not anymore.

.

“so here you are,” junmyeon said, gingerly plopping to the seat beside him. the boy didn’t even ask for his permission, but then again, it’s not like he had to. it’s a public space. _ but then again_, it’s not like he’d want to say no.

yifan refused to look at the other boy, choosing instead to burn his irises on the cruel brightness of the large lit-up company logo atop the skyscraper opposite them. he couldn’t recognize its name, but that’s fine. tonight, all it exists for was to give him a distraction. maybe even a bit of pain for penance.

and with that, junmyeon sighed, shaking his head, eerily on the dot, like he can hear exactly what yifan had been thinking.

after a while, he spoke again. “you can’t hide from me, you know,” he said matter-of-factly. like all they were discussing was the weather. if only he could go back to when that was the only thing they had in common.

he heard junmyeon take another deep inhale, probably in preparation of launching into a long and winded tirade, like the leader that he was and despite the chill he was experiencing, this flooded him with warmth. irritation. frustration. anger. at whom? he really didn’t know. all he knew was succinctly put into one word—

“don’t,” he said harshly, spitting the word out like venom. 

junmyeon didn’t even flinch. he turned to yifan, moved closer to him, the soft warm tip of his nose dangerously near to yifan’s cheek—

“don’t,” yifan said again, this time softer, almost a whisper. a plea.

“‘don’t’ what?” junmyeon asked back, his warm breath caressing yifan’s cheek—warmth he knew he didn’t deserve. 

yifan gritted his teeth. “i’m not hiding,” he said.

junmyeon raised an eyebrow. “...right. you’re not hiding but it’s near midnight and you’re kilometers away from the dorm without telling anyone—even lu-ge—about you leaving.” he sighed, and from his periphery, yifan could see that junmyeon had closed his eyes, brow furrowed, as if trying to nitpick whatever he’s going to say next.

he hated it—hated _ this_. hated when junmyeon would go all-“leader mode” on him. choosing his words carefully to tiptoe around his feelings, speaking slowly and _ vaguely _ in an attempt of gauging his mood, acting like a fucking company spokesperson when he was only 21 and was practically still a kid but he had already spent more than half of his life trying not to be _ and isn’t this what yifan promised he wouldn’t have to do with him_—

“don’t,” yifan said again.

“‘don’t’ what, yifan? is this about—” he sighed again, but this time, it was clearly out of frustration. “if you wanted me to do something, you should’ve said so.” his tone gained a sharp edge. “use words, fan, instead of hiding from me. you know that’s useless. i always know where to find you.”

maybe it was the cold, or maybe it was the stone-hard conviction in junmyeon’s voice, but it somehow powered yifan to have the courage to meet the other’s eyes. 

but his sudden movement didn’t even faze junmyeon. “doesn’t matter where. i always know.”

he did. junmyeon always did. that was why he was junmyeon. not exo-k’s leader junmyeon, not the kids’ favorite hyung to pester junmyeon, not sm’s favorite punching bag junmyeon, but yifan’s favorite version of him—_just _ junmyeon. no responsibilities, no false pretenses. just those crinkly eyes that always managed to see through all of him.

“i’m not hiding,” yifan said slowly, his words hanging between them, too heavy to dissipate into dust. something clicked in junmyeon’s eyes too, but yifan was too cold to decipher them. maybe next time, maybe not anymore. he knew the other understood anyway—_junmyeon _ always did.

“i’m not hiding,” he repeated. “especially not from you. hiding means i don’t want to see you. and i’ll never not want to see you.”

bitter laughter escaped from junmyeon’s throat, long been clogged before being freed. “yifan,” he called out, almost a whisper, trembling from what yifan hoped was the cold wind. “we…” he started again, voice breaking off. “it’s four years for you, six years for me, but i’ve been dreaming about this since i was a kid. the others—”

“i know that, i’m not that selfish. but even just them? even just in the dorms?”“we can’t take risks. we’ve worked too hard, and we can’t waste it on something—”

“‘something’ what? stupid? on something ‘stupid’?” yifan asked bitterly, before following it by choked-off laughter that he couldn’t even convince himself with.

but junmyeon was still unfazed. he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, gathered his bearings, and met yifan’s gaze again. this was the junmyeon he was most scared of. not trainee for six years junmyeon, not son of rich professors junmyeon, not exo’s main leader and guardian of millions of wons worth of investment junmyeon, but this one—the junmyeon who would never choose him the way yifan would. above everything, above _ everyone_.

even before they dove into this, _ fuck_, even before he even talked the boy, he knew this existed. he knew before he fell that it’d end like this, but he never thought seeing it real would be like this, would _ feel _like this.

“no, yifan. not ‘stupid’. just _ impossible_.”

.

#####  _ almost two years ago_

they were lucky their group had him. the choreographers, producers, stylists, and even their managers probably wouldn’t agree, but yifan knew that junmyeon was their ace. no, he was more than that—he was the only reason exo still existed after what everyone said after their debut. _ sm’s biggest mistake_.

_ as if_, he thought smugly. like anything can end up being a mistake when junmyeon was in it.

yifan has known about junmyeon since he first stepped foot onto sm’s training halls. rich, well-connected, and handsome enough that there wasn’t an immediate disapproving _ tsk _ hurled at him, together with the calling card of a plastic surgeon from gangnam. 

he should’ve debuted already, their teachers would often sigh, but instead he was still stuck in the practice rooms, a diamond gleaming against nails. success follows a boy like that, their teachers would say. 

he was the kind of boy they should all be, if they wanted to debut. and when they were at his level, they should count their blessings and hope there was still room for another, one that’d make them stick to him. be part of whatever he’s in.

junmyeon was one to watch and watch _ out _ for. but he never anticipated how much he’d enjoy doing it.

.

it was now three in the morning, but time doesn’t exist for those whose futures are in danger. 

all the kids have left for the dorms, shepherded by minseok and luhan. and because they hate him, plying him with those pointed looks and knowing glances, yifan was forced to stay at sm and wait for junmyeon, who wanted to take advantage of the late hours to have the empty practice room all for himself.

<strike> (it was fine. he had wanted to take advantage of seeing junmyeon in his light all by himself too.) </strike>

he’s spent around four years in korea already, and all of those years were offered into sm’s loving hands. yifan has always had a conflicted relationship with the company, filled with irrational resentment over his youth being wasted away trying to make his stubborn limbs flow to some bubblegum pop beat. 

but now that he knows just how close sm is to throwing him back to vancouver, he couldn’t help but realize that the sm building looked even more daunting that it already was for him before.

and in the wee hours of the night, with all lights off, leaving him to fend for himself in the maze-like hallways of the building, he never felt as helpless as he did at that moment.

but as much as he was starting to rethink his decision of fetching the boy, the blood rushing into his ears and his racing heartbeat were in sync, singing one word, one name.

luhan would probably call it stupidity while minseok would say it was just inevitable, but right now, as he finally finds the practice room junmyeon was in, perhaps it was luck. 

lucky—just fate’s silly intervention that he had to warp himself, bend over and under, stretched thin in all directions, only to allow his body to make music using the crashing waves in his bloodstream to accompany himself_ screaming his name_.

.

he found junmyeon in one of sm’s almost nameless practice rooms, usually ordinary but now seemingly magical with the boy in it. 

the room was dark and silent, all except for the small overhead lamp in the hallway and the backtrack from junmyeon’s iPod, humming faintly some sort of piano arrangement that yifan couldn’t immediately recognize. 

and as the silence threatened to suffocate yifan, joined with the darkness, with their daunting arms open for an embrace, junmyeon wordlessly offered comfort, his serene face ebbing the tendrils of fear stemming within yifan.

comfort.

then, the boy hummed a few notes, ones familiar even to yifan’s untrained ears. 

it was the song that his grandparents loved, dancing in their living room in guangzhou, pulling him in and spinning him around as he was carried on his _ wai gong _ ’s shoulders. it was the song that his _ wai po _ loved to sing as she cooked, her unacquainted tongue bending itself to be familiar with the language, its effort lacing the words and making them sound even sweeter than they already were. 

it was the first song that he tried to master when he started learning english, a token of gratitude to his grandparents. it was also the first song that showed him the power of music, how foreign words that should be gibberish can be strung along well enough that they make sense.

and as junmyeon opened his mouth to let out the first few lines of _ moon river_, yifan felt like it was happening again: it was making sense.

whenever junmyeon sang, he was ecstasy. his voice dominated the room, filling the cracks of the old, concrete walls, occupying the hollows of the beaten-up hardwood dance floor. in every being present, every instrument struggling to keep up, every rest weaving tightly through the raging melody, he was there.

he wasn’t just with him in the room, nor was he around him. he was through him, _ in _ him. junmyeon had occupied every crack and gap inside of him, even ones he wasn't even aware were there. for junmyeon, he was impermeable, letting a never-ending river flow into the unknown, never spilling, never flooding. an eternal conduit refusing to let him sink.

he had become the impossible—endless, eternal, never-ending. like a lucky child deemed the gods' favorite.

“yifan,” the boy said, finally noticing him.

and as junmyeon smiled at him, he realized he was he wasn’t just lucky. indeed, he was more than that—blessed by a god.

_ oh_.

_ no. _

_ ohfuckno. _

_ nonononononono. _

  
  


“yifan?”

“yes.”

.

#####  _still two months ago, a few hours after_

it was dark. dark enough that there wasn’t anyone around them anymore, that the tower’s lights have all been turned off, without any visitors to entertain anymore, that the night seemed so long, stretching across the sky, limitless like it will never end and the day will never come. 

dark enough that they can pretend nothing happened, hiding away not just from each other but from themselves too, pretending to stay still and wait for the sun to arrive and wipe away all memories of that night.

they sit quietly, exactly a shoulder width apart. but when their fingers used to itch to be with one another, now they keep firmly beside themselves, scared to be burned. too much risk-taking has finally brought its lessons, it seemed.

their heavy breathing fills the air, and if there were a few sniffles here and there, yifan tried his hardest to block them out. what’s done is done, after all.

he doesn’t really know what he’s waiting for, exactly, but he knew that he didn’t want to be the first one to break the silence. history has taught him about the dangers of being the one to rock the boat, the consequences imposed on someone who dared to do too much. and after so many times of refusing to listen, maybe this time he could use that advice.

seoul’s weather at three a.m. was odd. where it used to be chilly and freezing earlier, strange warmth permeated the air, thawing his cheeks. still, he felt numb, his senses refusing to function. and despite how much he rubbed his palms over the coarse fabric of his jeans, his nerves were relentess, continuing to ignore him.

“two years ago,” junmyeon spoke after an eternity. yifan’s head snapped up, unable to resist the first sign of attention, of life, from someone else after hours. still, he was ignored, as the other had his head bowed down, eyes clenched shut, face twisted in what seemed to be an attempt of a smile.

it didn’t work. no one could be fooled by that. 

over them both, the snow has warmed down, turning into a faint drizzle that sprinkled over them lightly, as if it was trying to be subtle. like nature itself was eavesdropping.

junmyeon cleared his throat. “it was two years ago, wasn’t it?” he asked again. “you looked at me differently. i noticed.” he sniffed, nose twitching like a bunny. yifan would’ve teased him about it, but there was a part of him that told him to stop and stare and _ memorize _ the scene in front of him, forcing him to commit it to memory. like a forewarning, a preternatural instinct that told him that this might be the last, and he should at least try to get something from a lost fight. a souvenir. a lifeline to hold on to.

his throat, his chest, his entire being suddenly felt tighter than before, engulfed by a constricting embrace from some unseen entity. he felt suffocated, demanded to be brought to his knees for the chance of comfort. now, he just wanted to cry. how do you surrender when you’ve been defeated before the war started?

“no,” he started, but his voice came out a weak whisper. “no,” he tried again. “i don’t think so. maybe it was longer than that. it certainly felt like it.”

junmyeon barked out a laugh, and for once, this actually sounded something akin to real. they were both trying in this farce, but only junmyeon was succeeding. _ good_. it’s not like he expected anything else. “why? am i that boring? did i make time feel too slow for you?”

he could feel junmyeon’s gaze on him—hot and heavy and not helping at all. but he couldn’t find it in him to be angry about it. perhaps, that was the thing about endings. no matter how uncomfortable or downright painful, you just accept them as they were. after all, this was the last thing he’ll ever have.

so, he shook his head and met junmyeon’s stare. this was not the time for cowardice. it wasn’t like he was going to get anything else anyway.

“i guess i’ve just loved you for so long i don’t even remember a time i don’t,” he said, with an attempt of a smile plastered on his face.

it didn’t work too. but at least junmyeon was polite enough to return it back, refusing to leave him alone in this act. 

“i don’t know what to say to that, yifan,” junmyeon said.

but yifan knew. he _ knew_. if he were the one asked in junmyeon’s place, he could’ve said so much. _ sorry, no, we made a mistake. _ or _ listen, hey, let’s work this out. _ or his favorite, the ones he whispered to himself at nights without junmyeon, what he daydreamed as he tried to sleep, what he dreamt of while he was already sleeping: _ stay_.

but yifan also knows that it would never be _ those _ words. he knew his limits.

the drizzle has gotten stronger now, threatening to pour all over them. his shoulders were already drenched down to his shirt, and his hair laid limp and flat with the combination of the rain and the day’s grime and dirt. ultimately, he was a mess, and looking at junmyeon, he found the boy—_<strike>the</strike>_ _ <strike> boy, his world, his universe</strike>—_a mirror image of himself. they looked precisely like their managers’ nightmares, far away from the idol image that they were supposed to uphold. 

some time ago, he would’ve quipped about this to the other, and he would laugh wholeheartedly, the kind of laugh reserved for those who have managed to make him forget that he was sm’s kim junmyeon. exo’s _ suho_. 

and while yifan had never been one to shortchange the shamelessness of joking about it, even now, there was something in the haunted look in junmyeon’s eyes that made him stop.

he wasn’t the only one gutted up by this. and judging by how he could still think about joking—anything to escape the conversation they were or weren’t having—he wasn’t the one carrying the heavier burden either.

“but here’s what i do know,” junmyeon said, his voice gaining a sort of stability that only came with certainty, like he’s rehearsed this multiple times before. “i love you, wu yifan.” he chuckled. “for me, it was two years ago. that’s almost ten percent of my life, but it still feels so fast.”

junmyeon took a deep breath. “maybe it’s because i knew it would end and i didn’t want it to. especially _ when _ i didn’t want it to. but it had to—has to,” he continued. “you were there when we won on that stage. how all the members and fans were happy, crying, wanting to suspend the moment to feel that way forever. you know what it’s like: to have something right out of your wildest dreams finally happening. thinking that you don’t deserve it and feeling greedy that you’re savoring it but at the same time refusing to let it go. it’s pure happiness, yifan, and i’ve already been blessed to experience all that in loving you. but the fans, the members, the _ kids_—we have to give this up so that they can experience that again. it’s our jobs. our responsibilities. because you’re kris and i’m suho and and we’re _ exo_.”

it was then that the rain stopped listening in on their conversation, demanding their attention instead. it poured over them like an avalanche, soaking and drenching them down, seeping into their innermost layers. but both of them remained still, with junmyeon still looking at him, smiling sadly.

yifan opened his mouth to speak, even though he knew that there were no words to express what he was feeling—if he was still even _ feeling_. but it was his turn, right, to say something back. to put words out there and speak for himself and _ goddamnit why can’t i say anything now when this is the last time_—

junmyeon reached over him and squeezed his hand. with one look, the boy effectively shut down all the fight that still remained in him. he wasn’t waiting for yifan to say anything anymore. no more expectations. they—_this_—was all there is.

so there yifan let himself be, finding out that he can still surrender even if he was the loser before the game even started. he allowed himself the luxury given by the rain, a recluse, a sanctuary, masking the tears that have freed themselves from him to dance with it. 

but there was no more room for pretenses. junmyeon hugged him tightly, stroking his back. he was crying too.

it hurt. there was no other way to describe it. he had always thought he was prepared for it. grief was simple. at first it’d be painful, but most of the time, it’d just be numbing. and when it came to the both of them, two people who’ve entered something wholly knowing how it would end, it would just be cathartic, the release of a long-awaited outcome. at least, that was how he thought it’d be.

but grief wasn’t the side effect of an ending; it was a way to cope with it. and no one really prepared him for what it felt like to face the end—and as the rain reminded him, his present.

water seeped into his clothes, and though he was far from drowning, he felt just as overwhelmed by it. _ he was kris and he’s with suho and they are exo_—those words repeated in his head over and over again, an endless chant, a litany to some deity out there, listening, in hopes that he’ll be made to remember.

remember that he’s kris, he’s suho, and they’re exo. they weren’t just stage names or masks they wear for work. they’re _ them_. 

the rain wasn’t just there to mask his tears away. it was also there to _ baptize _ him, ending _ yifan _ and giving birth to _ kris. _ forgetting the one who wholly loved, who could never truly be who he wanted, all to be able to capture the world.

there was no turning back now.

he stilled, a wave of mourning growing stronger within him, one that he tried to restrain. but junmyeon just squeezed him harder.

“go ahead, yifan,” junmyeon whispered. “you can’t hide from me, remember?”

he cried harder.

.

#####  _ four years ago _

his singing was shit, his dancing was even more so, and there was no way someone like him could ever be a rapper. still, he had an ounce of visual potential in him. tall, lean, broad shoulders. but he looked more like a giant than a model. more of a sad, failed athlete than an idol.

at least, that was what one of the trainer’s initial assessments said. all written in a flimsy piece of paper folded haphazardly, tucked in a cheap notebook, left in the practice room as the trainer went to lunch. completely out in the open, no secrecy needed, no care at all as if his future didn’t depend on that piece of paper. as if he hadn’t gambled his life for it.

everyone had already left the practice room, their teachers and most of the trainees alike. he stayed, taking advantage of the empty sockets to charge his phone. he wasn’t alone, though. junmyeon kim was there.

he was the golden goose of a trainee—that junmyeon kid.

handsome, rich, and training long enough that in all aspects, talent-wise, he was passable—which was a big deal by sm’s standards. 

ready for debut.

besides, there was plenty of time to improve once you’ve debuted. if it weren’t for that ridiculous injury, he could’ve debuted already. they had to put that middle school kid for the new boy group instead.

such a shame, he heard their teachers saying. junmyeon was already close with the other boys. his image was already fitting too—

pure, innocent, golden. an angel. _perfect_. he would’ve made a good maknae.

but yifan could see what they couldn’t: the raw hands from how much the boy tried to wash away the nicotine in his fingers, the tell-tale square packet cleverly hidden in his jeans’ bulky pockets, the controlled and measured way he talks sometimes to mask the lingering effects of potent soju, and the bruises in his legs at areas you could only get through skateboarding, something the boy really shouldn’t be doing when he’s had an accident already.

and sometimes, yifan could also see what the managers have been ignoring: red, raw, crescent-shaped dents in the back of his hands, fidgeting with his worn-out sweats. blown-out pupils and stammering hellos, accompanied by the empty cans of energy drinks and stale smell of vending machine coffee. frozen breathing, tight lips, and clenched jaw as he cradled a phone near his ear, only to have pink-rimmed eyes and even redder cheeks later, scrubbed clean of all tear tracks.

so maybe he wasn’t as perfect as everyone thought he was. but still, he couldn’t stop himself from remaining fascinated.

“aren’t canadians supposed to be polite?” a familiar voice broke his stupor. kim junmyeon was in front of him, smirking, but there was thinly veiled annoyance in his eyes. “why do you keep staring at me?”

he stammered, at a loss, trying desperately to find a way out. words avoided him, and they were all alone in the practice room. it seemed that all the other trainees had flocked out before.

there was no one else to save him now. but he still couldn’t do anything but to just keep staring. 

junmyeon steadily maintained his gaze at him, not leaving his face. he remained silent though, especially when yifan expected for the other to become annoyed and brush him off, probably text the other trainees or even their teachers about the weird foreigner who just didn’t know how to keep to himself.

if he were a bit more shameless, he would’ve bet that junmyeon was waiting for him to do something. 

how odd—to think that he’d earned enough respect to deserve the other having expectations of him.

maybe it was a battle of nerves, or a new game of chicken in maintaining eye contact, but whatever it was, he lost. yifan’s eyes betrayed him, and when they tried to find something else to fixate on, all they did was land on the square bulge in junmyeon’s sweatpants’ pocket.

the other followed his gaze and when he looked back at yifan, only raised an eyebrow. _ and laughed. _

there was a glimmer of surprise in his eyes, which were swallowed by the crinkles of their corners. mirth was present in his plump cheeks, so high they looked like they would burst. a corner of his mouth quirked up, lips almost pressed into a pout, as if he was trying to stifle more laughter but failing.

there was a huge chance that yifan did something wrong. something in his gut said that. perhaps he was being mocked, and was about a few steps away from ruining the last remaining chances he had to a social life in a country that did not know him.

but his body refused to consider that. his chest started feeling funny—growing tight and heavy before it felt like it was moving. shaking. flying. like there’s a wild animal inside trying to break free. his stomach started turning, pulling on his knees, wanting him to meet the ground and lie there and rest and disappear as he waited for the world to end because there felt like no other way to live tomorrow after this.

even though he didn’t know why, his brain refused to cooperate, shutting down, leaving him in a bubble of nothingness. like all he existed for—or has existed for—was just to be an object of junmyeon’s gaze.

and the strangest of all: he felt peace.

“you have good eyes,” junmyeon spoke in accented english, amusement colored in his tone. then, smiling wider, he leaned toward yifan conspiratorially, no sign of apprehension at all, and asked, “you got a light?

.

[excerpt from a letter inserted in one of the namsan tower’s locks]

#### YF + JM

_ i’m never one to fall in love, but you are magic. sunshine, grace. the fuel that sparked a fire inside me, shaking me alive. breathing, not just a hollow shell anymore. _

_ you took me back to my roots in the stars, with cosmic dust vibrating inside me, humming your song. if it’s the last thing i’ll ever do, thank you. _

_ especially for this day. _

(1:00 am, may 22. 2012)

[16]

###  _ 00:00:00 left_  
**the house he grew up in, guangdong province, china**

whenever he was asked, he always said that he grew up in guangzhou. ****

before, he always said he was a child of the city, born right in the middle of the big, busy, bustling crowd. it had been an attempt to protect himself, far away from the prying eyes of anonymous commenters and hungry vultures equipped with lenses, or his peers’ raised eyebrows and the pity threaded along their simple and all-knowing “_ oh _ ” as they realize that his childhood wasn’t as easy as theirs. ****

but now it was different—_he _ was different. jaded. scared. and maybe a bit tired too. he used to swim away from it, but now he was willingly drowning himself in the guangzhou crowd, where the pressure to blend in sometimes was greater than the expectation to break out and be bigger and better than what he came from.

because when you’re here in one of the biggest cities in the world, you’re just a single person surviving amidst billions. it’s ridiculous to think about anything else than being ordinary.****

failure, then, is not just common; it’s fate.****

(and guangzhou isn’t protection anymore; it’s an excuse.)

his cousin dropped him off unceremoniously in front of their grandparents’ house. 

after a few hours together in that cramped car, wei apparently recovered from the lingering awkwardness between them to be shameless enough to leave him with nothing but a wink and a heavy slap on the back.

“for good luck,” he had said. “you look like you need it.” then, he honked loudly thrice. when all the lights in the house turned on, he added, “now you’re really going to need it.”

“yifan! front door’s open,” his mother shouted from the inside.

he took a deep breath and braced himself before reaching over the rusty gate to swing it open. 

.

this wasn’t the house he was born in, but it might as well be. 

he had vague impressions of a time before this house, too faint to even be considered a memory, of being in a small, cramped space when he was little, but this was where he grew up and spent most of his childhood in.

from stories about his childhood, he knew that his mother took him with her before in the city, living in a shoebox studio apartment as she tried her best to juggle working a full-time job and tending to an infant.

she never really did talk much about that time, but yifan knew that it was then that his mother became adamant that he was only her child, no one else’s.

and he never really asked about that time too, or even about _ him_. so far away from that place, so far removed from _ him _ that it might have been someone else’s life and not his. but then again, wasn’t it exactly like that?

(isn’t _ this _ exactly like that?)

.

the overgrown plants greeted him as he entered the compound, yellowed leaves bowing to him as they spilled over their pots. they lacked the care they used to have before, haphazardly taken care of, farfetched from the manicured picture they used to be. 

he wiped the freckles of rust from their dilapidated gate on his jeans, praying that they wouldn’t stain. it’d be hell to get them out. their stylists would—

_ idiot. _ he snorted. why should he still care? it’s not like he had an appearance to maintain. _ not anymore_. too bad habits were hard to break.

hunching over, he put his head down, smiling as he felt the phantom ache on his temple from the years he’d spent in puberty bumping into his _wai gong_’s orchid pots. they were still there though, wrinkled and brown, dried and fragile at the ends, far from the assortment of colors that his _wai gong_ talked to every morning.

even their heavy hardwood door bore the burden of time. the intricate carvings on them—of dragons and princes and mystics that altogether were made magical and alive by his _wai po_’s gifted tongue—now seemed dull and plain and two-dimensional. 

yifan swung the door open and it scraped hard on the wooden floor, its creak particularly grating on his ears. he braced himself on instinct for the inevitable _ tsk _he knew he’d receive, but there was none. 

he sighed. sometimes he forgot that his grandparents weren’t here anymore.

but when he ignored that <strike> (which he did, all the time, or else—)</strike>, he could fool himself that nothing much changed about his childhood home. 

the hardwood chairs were still placed in the same place, still mismatched from where they bought them from the store one by one to complete an entire set. the decorative china vases yellowed with time, but they still gleamed with the sliver of moonlight it caught from the window. even the pictures around the living room were the same—

yifan and wei at seven and twelve, respectively, with both of them almost the same height but wei double his size. yifan at nine towering over their neighbors’ kids, head shaved for the summer and wearing that oversized t-shirt layered with a basketball jersey like all the cool kids he saw on tv. a collage of yifan and his mom in vancouver, with one when he was eleven in front of a tim hortons, the first time he felt like he was actually far away from home. a close-up of yifan at twelve, stolen by his mother, gummy smile unabashed and open for the camera, overgrown hands splayed over a spalding given to him for his birthday, the first time he felt like he found another home. 

.

their house was small, and it didn’t take long for him to reach their kitchen. 

the smell of garlic lingered in the air, the silence surrounding it interrupted intermittently by the knife’s raps against the chopping board. 

his mother sat alone beside their dinner table, a small round one made of hardwood, with ornate carvings of dragons and bamboo trees adorning its legs. 

they’ve long outgrown it, but his _wai gong_ had been exceptionally fond of it, his pride beaming as he boasted on how he saw it buried in the scrap area of the nearby flea market, before bringing it back to life. there was no way they could get rid of it. (especially because in his deepest and most irrational dreams, he wished it could bring _wai gong_ back too.)

assorted bowls of different sizes surrounded his mother. ground pork, a small stack of dumpling wrappers, rice vinegar, amber-colored oil that was probably olive oil, and even a small bowl that contained nothing but a few pinches of sesame seeds. all laid out without its packaging, cut and portioned already accordingly, just the way mama preferred to cook. 

“this way, there’s no turning back,” she had always said. “to give up when you’ve done so much would only be a loss.”

she was busy mincing garlic, her expert hands quick and fine as she chopped them. she didn’t even look up to greet him, and yifan just smiled, wordlessly to the nearby sink to wash his hands before taking a seat opposite her.

“dumplings, mama?” he asked in a teasing tone. “you shouldn’t have bothered. i’m not that special.” chuckling, he took the single piece of ginger on the table and the knife beside it—how predictable of you, mama—and started peeling it.

mama just shrugged, laughing softly as well, her hands still steadily chopping the garlic. “i had a craving. it’s a good thing you’re here now, though.” she looks up at him. “took you long enough,” she said, smiling.

.

they work together in silence.

yifan can’t remember the last time he and mama sat together for this long, or even spent this much time together. the calm and peace are also surprising, but he can’t really consider them welcome ones. despite the distance, he’s had twenty-four years of experience being her son. whatever this was won’t last.

(he had twenty-four years of experience being yifan too. and whatever he has, it never lasts.)

they communicate through the rapping of their knives against their chopping boards. a set of _ one, two, three, four, five _before scraping the metal against the wooden grain, sliding the garlic and ginger to the side. then another piece, another set, another slide. again and again, establishing more of the calm that yifan has always wished for but now didn't know what to do with.

anxiety tickles the back of his neck, dripping down his spine as it extended to wrap its arms around his neck. his throat remains dry and parched and almost _ lifeless, _stilling and immobile, like how his lungs were starting to act like. little by little, as the sound of their symphony with their knives fill the room, yifan feels himself shutting down, tethered to the ground by the weight in his gut that grows heavier and heavier with every chop.

mama lays down her knife before raising an eyebrow at him. it’s only then that he looks down and sees that he's been mincing the same clump of garlic for a few minutes now, making them finer than they should be.

something bitter settles within him. if he had been inclined in fulfilling more than what is required, than what should be, in _ enduring_, why couldn't he before?

(because he's a f—)

he stills, but mama doesn't waste time and reaches over to pull his chopping board and minced garlic right from under his hands. he doesn't protest, just watches as she adds them in the big bowl where the ground pork has been waiting in. without pauses or hesitation, she takes all the other small bowls on the table—beaten eggs, soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic—and mixes them altogether with a large wooden spoon that used to be his _wai gong_'s favorite.

then, she sits down, halves the stack of dumpling wrappers and offers one part to him, nodding at him before silently going back to her work, her hands systematically taking a spoonful of the pork mixture before expertly pleating and sealing the dumpling.

all of this without a single word or glance offered. and not even a smile, nor a grimace. it's like she doesn't know about what's happened, about why yifan is suddenly there. like it's normal, an ordinary day in what seem to be their ordinary lives.

but even before the thought of mama not caring crosses his mind, he brushes it off. it's impossible. mama cares—she _ always _ does. and that's why this silence is driving him crazy.

this is the woman who doesn't believe in going in circles or playing around. it wastes time, she'd always say. she'd always been direct—as direct as when she dropped three english workbooks, a thick secondhand copy of harry potter and the prisoner of azkaban, and a dictionary at the foot of his bed to prepare because they were moving to canada, when she locked away his basketball and shoes when he showed up with a failing mark, when she gave him three large boxes and his old suitcase to pack his things after his refusal to apply for college.

she didn't need to use words when her actions left nothing to be desired already. but now she isn't giving him anything at all.

"mama," he says, finally unable to resist the silence.

"hmm?"

his mind goes blank. yifan isn't in a scarcity of things he wanted to tell his mother—_i'm sorry_s, _ i miss you_s—but somehow, he couldn't get his mouth to cooperate with him.

his head is swimming though—no, _ drowning_. thoughts fill every single gap inside his head, a cacophony of noises that refuse to be silenced. no harmony at all, like he's in the middle of a concert coliseum filled with unintelligible shouts. there was no chance of silence in sight and it traps him, suddenly enclosing him in a cage that he's too messed up to even think about escaping.

in his gut, it feels familiar; he's experienced this before. speechlessness, shutting down, like his body is simultaneously betraying itself by slowing down and exerting itself to its limits to go beyond overdrive.

he thinks of once-deep and booming voices weakened to a whisper, as weak as the wrinkled hand on his arm, proud and indebted and grateful. he gets a figment of a boy who smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and chlorine, whose soft but commanding voice unleashes butterflies fluttering within his ribs. he sees the ghosts of eight boys, drenched in disappointment and anger and exhaustion that he knows he caused.

he's experienced this before, whenever he gets overwhelmed by the want to say too much that he ends up not saying anything anymore and it's frustrating, not because he's keeping so much inside that he's around a few steps before breaking down but because it just reminds him of another thing in which he's a—

"yifan, are you—"

"i'm a failure." he takes a deep breath, the only one he seems to be able to take at the moment, unable to breathe properly. "i left home, sold my soul for six years, but all i have to show up for it is my failure, mama."

he shrugs, and it’s only then that he realizes how wet his cheeks are already. his eyes sting now that he's paid attention to them, the harsh air turning even more acrid, refusing to allow him to open his eyes. the lump in his throat becomes heavier, threatening to choke him, drowning him before he even had the chance to put up a fight. but the weight on his chest is merciless, relentless, dragging him down even deeper.

so he just lets himself be swayed by it. he’s tired—of fighting, of pretending, of holding on to the scraps of his pride that wouldn't permit him to admit what he should have a long time ago, the moment he walked into that law firm's office.

"i'm a failure, mama," he repeats, this time with more effort into it, trying to say it louder, as if that would magically let him reclaim the label to brandish it with more confidence. it doesn’t work, rushing out of his lips in a harsh whisper, almost like a whistle, as if even his voice has left him out of shame. he couldn't blame it, though.

"i'm a failure, mama," he laughs. "i told you when i left that i'll make you proud, that i'll give you the pride that i was never able to give you before. that you'll go to strangers and your friends and you'll be able to say that i'm your son. but all i've given you are disappointment and regret, huh? that's all i've done to people who took a risk on me." he laughs even more. "you would've liked junmyeon a lot, mama. after all, i did the same to both of you.”

yifan shrugs and slumps against his chair, limp. he puts his hands on the table and stares at them, before fiddling with the edges of the dumplings that his mama has already made. perfect and immaculate, its edges pleated without flaws, starkly different from the mottled bruises and small cuts at the back of his hand. 

his mama had two creations, one was perfect and the other was irreparably broken, telling him that between the two of them, she was not the one at fault.

a new rush of emotions washes over him, and he let it sway him. he is weightless, drifting, ready to be taken away. lifeless, as cold as a driftwood drenched in saltwater making its rounds in different beaches, unable to settle ground. 

yifan fidgets with the edges of his nails, purposely pulling at the dry skin, desperate for any sign of pain, of sensation, of life. but all he can feel is cold, reminding of the chill that drenched him down to his bones, dripping across his back, his hands stinging as they froze, sharp stabs of pain as if screaming for the hands that they wanted to hold—

“i don’t know what happened either, mama. it sounds like an excuse but… i don’t want you to think i didn’t do my best. i really tried, mama. i did, i lived hard, i lived well.” he takes another deep breath, attempting to compose himself but failing. he winces. “but i guess it wasn’t enough—i wasn’t enough.” 

admitting it isn’t as satisfying as he thought it’d be, but somehow, he manages to gather enough energy—or resignation—to look up to mama. there is an indiscernible expression in her gaze, but he’s just too tired to try and interpret it, to do anything about it. to do anything _ at all _ anymore. 

“i’m sorry you had to have me as your son, mama. in my next life, i hope i’m still your son. i want to be make it up to you for all i’ve—”

mama reaches out, holds his hand, and squeezes it. “yifan,” she calls out softly, interrupting his loudest thoughts and worries with a simple touch, a quiet word. “let me tell you a little secret that all mothers know: children do all the good they need to do before they’re three years old.”

she smiles at him as she speaks, but her eyes are far from happy. he has only seen his mother cry once before—when his wai gong passed—and seeing it happen again, and knowing _ why_, more bitterness swelled within him—_he did this_.

but mama just squeezes his hand again, as if sensing his turmoil. “and you were always a good kid,” she says, cajoling, convincing him. “you spoke early, you walked well, you ate well, you even pooped well,” she laughs. “you didn’t cry or get sick. whenever you looked at me, you smiled for whatever reason. now how can that boy be a failure?”

she ignores the tears streaming down her cheeks and reaches out to wipe his off, to no avail. 

“what about me then, yifan? what do you call a mother who raised a failure? a mother who gave life to someone who grew up wanting death? thinking they deserve death?”

“sounds like someone who made a mistake, then, mama,” he said.

“but you’re not, yifan. otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” she takes both of his hands in hers and strokes the bruises and cuts on his knuckles. “in my next life, i hope i’m still your mother, you know? if there’s anyone who should be making up for anything, it’s me. you deserve all the love you think you’ve lost, and i’m sorry if mama wasn’t able to remind you of that.”

she stands up and ruffles his hair before kissing his forehead. “thank you for being my son, yifan.”

.

outgoing text to **myeon **(11:36 pm, september 15, 2014)

thank you. i know you told her.

incoming text from **myeon **(12:51 am, september 16, 2014)

idiot.

i’m not the only one you shouldn’t hide from. 

incoming text from **myeon **(1:00 am, september 16, 2014)

take care, yifan.

nothing changes for me.


	3. Epilogue

Name: <strike> Yifan Wu</strike> Kevin Wu

Date: November 6, 2000

###### Grade 5 Journal Writing Task Cards #1

Directions: Choose a prompt from any of the following and write your thoughts or answers on the space below.

[1]

Write a mysterious story, starting with, “I heard footsteps outside my door…” | 

[2]

If you could spend the day with any of your family, who would it be and why? | 

[3]

Write a letter to your teacher. Are there any questions you want to ask him or her?  
---|---|---  
  
[4]

Write something that always puts a smile on your face. Is it your favorite TV show character? Food? | 

[5]

If you could change places with anyone in the world, who would it be and why? | 

[6]

_**Write a letter to your future self. Share your dreams and hopes or things for him/her.**_  
  
[7]

Write an encouraging letter to yourself for when you’re feeling sad or low. | 

[8]

What would it be like in a world where everyone’s dreams came true? | 

[9]

Imagine that you could have a superpower. What would you like it to be and why?  
  
Chosen prompt #:  **6**

November 6, 2000

From: Kevin Wu at 10 years old

To: Kevin Wu at 30 years old

Dear Kevin at 30,

You <strike>is</strike> are name are Yifan. Not Kevin. <strike>_Wai popo_</strike> <strike>Granma</strike> Grandma say you only Kevin in Canada. But you always Yifan.

I write <strike>to</strike> <strike>for</strike> <strike>to</strike> <strike>for</strike> to you because I <strike>belive</strike> <strike>beleive</strike> believe 30 is scary age. <strike>Mai</strike> My grandma say it is make or break age. It is age that controls life. Your future. She says if you fail, you fail forever. My mama is 30 when she <strike>give</strike> <strike>gives</strike> gaved birth to me. I <strike>did</strike> <strike>dident</strike> <strike>dind’t</strike> don’t know if she failed.

Mama and me moved to Canada 2 mants ago. First I don’t unnerstan english but now I do. We live in a smoll <strike>haus</strike> hous. We don’t have car. Only ride bus. Mama and me ride bus like in movies. Sun is shining. Bright.

I can speak english little now but I will be good soon. Nobody can see now but I can be poet or rapper like Usher. Grandma says me smart. Grandma always right.

But I want to be basketball player. NBA like Allen Iverson. With kool sneakers. When I grown up I will buy the sneakers. Many I want. Mama coudent buy it for me now says too <strike>ekspensiev ekspensive eskpensive</strike> too much. I telled mama its ok. I buy it <strike> to </strike> for me soon. I buy it for her too.

I am grade 5 here. I don’t hav freinds but Mama says I will hav soon. How far is soon? All I do is wait. Wait at lunch in the cafeteria alone. Wait at class end for Mama in playground alone. My clasmetes think I am dum because I don’t unnerstan somtimes. They don’t push me like in TV but they luk at me funy. Somtimes there Mamas say weird words. Call me yellow. Hate my eyes. I am tired. I can’t wait go back to China. Mama says its soon.

What is future look like? How <strike> are </strike> am I <strike>in at</strike> on 29 years old? I hope you reply to this with answers to me. Am I tall? Rich? Handsom? Grandma says I will be handsom when I grown up. I believe grandma. Always right.

Do I have kids on 30 like Mama? I want a <strike>doghter dawter dawther</strike> girl. I will raise my girl to be pretty and smart and strong like Mama. Kind and funny and big smile. I will make her happy. I will be good papa. Like Grandpa. Not <strike>live laeve</strike> leave her mama. Be here. Not like papa.

What ever I am when I am 30, I hope I do it good. I hope I am not failure. I hope Grandma and Grandpa says I am good. Still good. <strike>Diden’t Dident</strike> Don’t go bad.

Future me I hope Mama is proud. I hope we make Mama happy. I hope we are happy.

Love,

Yifan Wu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [again, all events in this fic are **fictional**.]
> 
> this asshole of a fic has finally been completed, five months after it was first initially published, eight months after i first starting writing and all i can do right now is scream. sorry to the mods this took so long, and thank you for agreeing to publish an incomplete fic. if they hadn't, this wouldn't have been completed at all.
> 
> ty to my betas aka miss [marie-anne](https://twitter.com/wonseokie) and miss [ninna](https://twitter.com/hongjidaks). their tears were instrumental for this fic (clown emoji). if you also have tears to contribute to our cryfest, you may bombard my [twitter](https://twitter.com/stanyeol_) notifs.
> 
> also, happy eighth anniversary, exo. please don't forget to stream [suholo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ygrv55VRRas) and wait for yifan's new ep, "aurora" on april 15th.


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